Cement and graffiti slabs shoot a funnel
aiming a trick’ of what’s left south along the bike trail
We’ve got a view here, the horizon, the long cement hike
much more than the Colosseum or St. Peter’s Basilica
We have the random bushes struggling to survive
and out here with us, not a thing among them that speaks
There is grubby water down there
water we probably had once held, or our parents had held,
or maybe our parent’s parents, that we all had once upon a time let go
when one day we piled our exertions upon the cement And now we have
only 4 inches of deep
and maybe a hop across and all the ducks there in, too intricate for those artisans to have left behind,
that there in don’t seem to mind,
live skimming or swimming
or simply trot (it’s hard to tell) with their families there, making the most of it
like everything I said just doesn’t matter
And I know the ducks can’t speak
but I let them finish the poem anyway:
I know a hard grey path that leaves the parking lot
And you? Maybe you’ve known rivers, rivers as ancient as the world
But this one here, this we walk to the sea
D.W. Blake lives in Orange County, CA. When not attempting to spell, he fakes guitar in music organs such as Daryl Blake and Grinning Ghosts. He loves podcasts and enjoys pretending he is a wizard. Last year he self-published a collection of poems called Bows for Drella. Twitter: @d_w_blake
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