Travelogue Poem by Stan Petrovich

Keeping a fit timetable
Is an improbable countenance
For a guy, like me, who has
Been lost, and given up for lost,
In unforgiving desert mountains.

I once lived in an abandoned
Tungsten mine in the Hualapais,
My legs outstretched on the boss'
Desk. The difference was the
Dessicated peccary underneath:
A death-doll grin, gray-matted fur.

There was fresh water in the
Mineshaft, and one other man-
Or perhaps a Minotasur-
Dwelling within.
Either way, his breath stank,
Hanging on to the still, lightless air.