Isn’t it clean? Doesn’t water run
Pure and chilled and sweet like
Champagne from clear plastic bottles?
Don’t we smile, our teeth
As soldiers in perfect rows
Behind full red barricades?
Don’t you feel free
To walk the sidewalks here,
Cyclists on-your-left, and children
In big bright pads learning to fly
On inline wheels?
I think you do.
I don’t think you realize
How much
This is not Denver
Where Five Points brushes up against
The mauve and blue walls of Cherry Hills.
It’s not Vail, where a dollar and a half
Gets you a snack, and a fresh bit of
Old-style snobbery.
This ain’t Craig with the crew trucks full
Of imported Wyoming roughnecks,
Not Greeley, whose best restaurant hides
Away in some stucco under the freeway.
The Springs has stiff collars of
Uniforms, Pueblo the dirt and lime
Of history. Fort Collins has more parties
Than any school in the nation.
This, friend, is Boulder.
There’s no graffiti in this clean white city,
Amid our galleries and auditoriums.
There’s no dust.
It’s been a long time
Since we rock-n-rolled.
In this zirconic city, we have
Every color. They all come
Together here and shine;
Nestled in the mountains
High above, it’s so
White, white, white.