River City

Sometimes I wonder
They sing of the River Thames, a Londoner's lifeblood,
the Nile, where great civilizations grew,
the everwinding Amazon, the mighty Mississippi,
a sad Danube waltz, the river of the city of the isle.
Endless praise.

I think of our own little river and –
well.
        It's not quite up to par, is it?
So we've got - what? Muddiest water on earth,
maybe. Winding down Waterfront -
come on, play a while. Watch the flow from our
industrial park, deconstruction at your back.
Too nasty to swim too dead to fish.
Ask anyone in the city and you'll get the same answer.
State, even.

But –
Sometimes I wonder
They sing of the River Thames,
the Nile, Amazon, Mississippi,
the Danube, the Seine.
All famous world-large.
Endless praises.

I think of our own little river and -
well.
        It's ours, isn't it?
So we've got - well, a muddy toxic thing.
Gather on the Waterfront -
come on, stay a while. Planes and fireworks
all over the bridge. Over the river -
our river - sparkling in the moonlight.
Too cold for March but we're out on the bank anyways.
Hoosers, Highlanders, whoever. It's ours.

         So –
They sing of theirs, great noble things,
thrumming with beauty and life and praise.
Sometimes I wonder
I think of our own muddy toxic thing.
Dirty, ridiculed. Loved.

I realize
Go on. Sing of your pretty rivers,
good and golden and great.

Meanwhile,
I'll sing of mine and ours and
an illusion of beauty over our bridges
when the mud almost looks skyblue in the noonlight