Mountaineers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Those of us who survived,
Who were not tied together,
And so did not fall when the others fell,
Passed through the keyhole of
Little Bear Mountain,
And upon the nape of her neck
We scrambled until we had summited
And looking down into the American Basin
Filled with the indigenous pop stars
And playboy suicides,
We felt not unlike unsolicited Gods,
Defying our literary agents,
And in allegorical Marxism we
Shared our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
And smelled the nectarined farts of angels,
And drank the high oxygen air like wine,
Before we crawled back down again,
Like accountants not missing a single figure,
And then to sleep in our individual cars,
Celibate and clean the way patients
Come to a hospital before an operation,
But what the others thought I could not say,
For we had already shared our dream
And in the morning we soon dispersed,
Going our separate ways like a
Victorious football team.