The Wake

The distance began with a tone;
a decision to set my steps forward
with reason—

I began in a crescent of concrete and stone,
whose center bears the lines
under a tired wooden pole.
They skated from rooftop to rooftop
to the circuits of the stores lining the streets.

I took the alley with scattered gravel
and the signs of a beginner’s tags
over business stone
covered black and re-tagged again—
The scars of the garbage truck’s
teeth kick into my sandals,
scrape my feet.

The burden of the bridge
as I crossed over the tracks of commerce,
whose engines snarled slowly as they pass—
I could feel the waves of their distance bounce
from the steel, to the wood,
to the roots of my toes,
wrangling my hips as they walk.

And to my left, I saw eyes hang from above,
as the sounds of the afternoon faded to a buzz.
Dusk neared, and behind one tree
beyond the window of the old music building
a light appeared
and shimmered
and dimmed
while fingers dragged along the panes of glass.

To the west, a walking bridge
extending out
from the old Mineral Resources building,
with tiny gifts of history
never seen.
Uncovered by machine,
the tombs of tools lie open
in bunches underneath the back of the building
for eyes once attracted to the rusted,
ragged den of a man in his 50’s,
who slept under the canopy
of the old loading dock
for semi-trucks,
because he had everywhere else to go.

Then on to Riverview Apartments,
where tennis courts gleam
next door to the highway
where one may witness the traffic,
the city,
the land used for old steel and garbage,
and a river too polluted,
so you can only ‘view’.

I felt my way down to the river,
following the path along the banks of stone,
keeping my distance from the geese
whose protective eyes caught mine,
resisting my approach to their home of a coast.

And I found, in the distance,
a barge bound for the locks to the north—
My shoulder’s a bridge
to the ship
carrying its load.
I wanted to swim to its rusted personality,
as it drew ripples from the shore,
to its sores,
and back to the shore.