This is my "farewell to Missoula" poem:

Missoula is a man in a tuxedo sleeping soundly under a tree.

This is not a halfassed tuxedo he's wearing:

this is a full-on Monopoly Man affair, complete with coattails and a bow tie.

There is a cane discarded in the grass next to him 

and a top hat perched drunkenly on his head.

He's looking sharp despite the trickle of drool escaping over his bottom lip.

It's 3 a.m. and the dreamer could not look any more peaceful.

Hands folded on his chest, leaning against a tree by a Main Street parking lot,

his snoring forms a perfectly languid rhythm for the otherwise silent street.

A stumbling barfly gets a laugh out of the sight and has this thought:

The dreamer is all dressed up with nowhere to go,

but only because he is already exactly where he wants to be.

Song of the occasion:
Wait it Out - Imogen Heap (DuBuddha remix)

Sando in an Equinox blizzard