People gather in the parking lot

beside their rented automobiles,

staring past the pit’s edge, straining

to catch glimpses of the bottom.

 

Tourists pull over, slam

their vehicles into “park”,

and run towards the hole.

 

“That’s it!” one of them cries,

reaching into their purse or pocket

for a camera. The abyss starts wide,

then becomes steadily narrower,

 

each scoop towards the bottom

greedier than the last, like somebody

dug for extra bites of ice cream

until the tub ran empty,

and no one can lick it clean anymore.

 

When the copper was gone,

miners packed up and left town,

penniless, health shot forever,

but no one wants to remember that.

 

It doesn’t sell postcards, or

put money in merchants’ pockets.

 

Each night after the bars shut down,

patrons head someplace new

for an after-hours party.

 

Maybe they can extract one more drop

from an otherwise depleted evening.

Maybe they can stay above the pit,

long enough to avoid looking at the bottom.