How well will fifty years of nostalgia guide me as I visit
Places I went every weekend when I was a kid?
The battered mining towns, I hear, are "destinations"
Hipsters haunt. I don't suppose that they're content
To poke at over-easy eggs and hash browns in the old
Cafe my dad and I ate breakfast at before we hunted
Nearby hills. No, they'll be seeking haute cuisine.
The dumpy bars, I'm sure, are gone, their taps of tasteless,
Low-rent swill replaced by ones of microbrews and cocktails
Crafted on the spot by swishy guys who wouldn't know
A sluice box from a bag of spuds. Miner's houses, tarted
Up to look like homes in San Francisco, probably cost
Millions now, and that secluded swimming hole not many
Miles up the road, so clear and cold, and ours alone,
Appears to be along a trail, accessible to hordes
Of nerdy families who won't dare to swim. They'll just
Keep passing by, reminding me and anyone I bring
That this is not the wilderness my poor nostalgic mind
Recalls. It's just another far-flung suburb with a frigid
Pool.