They’ve used it up,
and now they’re coming here
to do the same.
Vermont, said the smooth gray man
descending to talk to the hick from the hills.
Such a beautiful state.
We visit now and then.
We have friends with a chalet in Stowe.
He drank his Manhattan and grew sentimental
about skiing and autumn leaves.
He’d lived in India for years,
a Union Carbide man, he said.
Wonderful opportunity to see the world.
His diamond edged wife joined us,
slobbery with gin, nostalgic for the beaches of Kenya.
All gone, she said, those lovely resorts.
But you have such beautiful places in Vermont.
So natural, unspoiled, so green.
(Bill was my dad. So many folks who get it have moved to Vermont from “away.” This poem is not about them.)