Man Made River


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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