I can’t help but feel sad for this city
born of a river but having forgotten
its roots / down here under another
impressionist sunset / do not brother
do not trust the waves/ but listen
anyway / the lack of knowing does not
take away from this sacred place:
those who are drawn are and the rest
find their solace in other corners
somewhere in this sad city
the great blue heron made no sound
save for the flap of his giant wings
legs kicked briefly at the air above the river
jumping off like something
in The 36th Chamber of Shaolin //
communing with the silence of traffic at 3 am
the tug boat spot lights draw lines
like low lying fog / I find I am uninterested
in the angry young punks, their posturing
and only the desperate fishermen are out this morning //
they will blame their failure on river monsters
too big for the shallow mud but they
do not look too close at the waters no
not too close else they will conclude too correctly / I conclude nothing it is not yet 5am
too early to order breakfast// and I am too heavy footed too earth bound and I do not yet
speak heron
The guy pretending to fish
and his old lady ask
if I have a cigarette; the
full moon philosopher
convinced my walking stick
was made by David Carradine
air out his feet smoking spice.
I make a mental note
to check on him — from a distance —
in case he gets some fentanyl laced shit
can’t have him go all oak-chested
I don’t carry Narcan anymore
and the state fair makes cops twitchy
more interested in keeping the tourists happy
less so one Kung Fu obsessed skeleton
his skin suit all stretched his eyes
on a different television station
his ears plugged against collective commercials
he doesn’t ask for smokes but somehow
I feel like if I was smoking
he’d tell me
they were rolled by the Marlboro Man
