At Estes Park I saw
A rusted can of Old Milwaukee Light
And a campsite long abandoned.
Over a fire they drank and complained
And told stories of jobs, women, bosses, kids,
Their shaggy hair shifting in the fall breeze.
How much gold did they have, how much bread,
How much cheddar, how much this and that?
Doesn’t matter now, does it, and for me it shouldn’t