Nothing left to extract for free,
the romance of living off the land
has been a business well-before
Kerouac rode the rails or Woody
rambled. With no stone unturned,
it’s been a myth since Turner closed
the Frontier Saloon, since the town
went bust and rats owned the street.
We are, at last, citified – cultureless
clones at the free-choice feed bunk,
safe diversions teasing senses for a price.
Call it what you will, but it’s gone.