New poem drop. A poem that is more on the narrative side about the state of a river I fish. Though steps have been taken to improve it.
beneath my feet
glass and mud pack the cracks
of worn soles.
the smell of cheap liquor
gone
but not the husks.
in the brush
a rotted bedroll.
where is its owner?
the racing water churns
to foam
holding what won’t sink
carrying bloated Wonderbread
to the turtles
at the dam
i step from the bank
and sink
in oil-black muck
wishing for glass.
this river
hides its poison
in a green and lavender
wrapper.
wading forward,
a winged rorschach
thickens the air.
at its chittering
center—
i know what i’m looking at.
but there is nowhere else
to fish.