I’m not going to lie, I tend to wax poetic about my hometown daily.
Off Court Street
Green glass seems to stretch
all the way to the towers,
the river perfectly still,
in the cool of the January thaw.
A gull floats motionless,
as if caught in the glass
like a photograph in real time
giving support to the lies of my eyes.
Closer the glass,
no the water,
is still so smooth,
a mirror catching
until it reaches the damn.
Where it stretches like cellophane
still taught against itself.
One expects the steady stream to snap
in a sudden and deafening rebellion.
But the violence waits below,
a bare twenty feet or so,
as over one hundred miles of tireless marching
come crashing down on themselves in impatience.
Like a queue in a riot
waves push against and past one another,
burying each other,
shoving each other,
and showing the silt below who is boss.
And rogue droplets dare the open air
flying toward a fleeting freedom
until gravity deposits them gently upon
Only half a dozen of these hundred miles
remain to be crossed in three great leaps
in the narrow corridor.
Only half a dozen
and they can see the rest at the end.