By John Quintero
The Donner ridge, now seen from here, cathedral’s porch:
Her seductive cleavage beckoned them to sink
Their ivories into boiled, flash frozen flesh so pink.
The pilot’s illusion of lowness to beat the scorch
Of winter, proved wrong. O so horribly wrong.
Belied the easy looking slopes of beautiful ease
Looking like God had meant a pass. Joker’s tease
The furies and sirens forgotten, the promising song.
Officials put me on such slopes I’d seen far off,
Released in the lifespan of cicada spawn.
Are my peeps, nomads wand’ring in the dawn.
Always, nod, always give your hat a gentle doff
And never, never fail to look them in their peeps,
That tells them they give you the, the upper class creeps.
