Half way up Everest you find a bag of weed.
You stash in it in your sleeve so no one else sees it
and so you feel it crinkle in your symmetry.
Three-fifths up the exit polls arrive with the victorious:
“We saw it on the horizon—the sloths won.”
Lights out, you spark a J from a hand-wash-only tag.
Two-thirds up it’s obvious, and your crew insist
share or leave. It’s Jonestown or no foul play
Seven-tenths up you’re all coughing, or was it
four-sevenths, you’re waving down the upcoming
The wholly-sober survivors return home to learn
there was no signal—the sloths never left office.
Leadership stick the climbers up their sleeves, brag
“I got this for being a human being.”
Someone pries your coat free because
someone they love is freezing. They are a moment
weightless, dreamy. “Why’d nigh thinka that
–damn tag been buggin since we set out.”
Special thanks to Amanda Besserer for prompting my partner to prompt me about Everest.