Mountain Home

We came to a hut in the woods
With no other buildings around.
It looked like this: uneven planks,

Rotting shake shingles, one window
Loosely boarded over, a door,
A crooked porch. And on the porch,

What we took to be an old fridge
Turned out to be a ticket booth
With an old man waiting inside,

Behind him, the endless mountain.
So there we were, miles from nowhere,
Asking the price of admission.