How its surface hides
the undulation on its bottom;
how its edges spill over
and are spilled over into.
How as it is fed by another,
the water tumbles, turns
over broken concrete slabs;
how herons perch there, oblivious.
How when the tunnel overflows
with rain, it releases a stench
into the summer breeze
that makes you turn away.
How the beaver plays under graffiti
refreshed the night before.
How my son found a raft
in a strip of woods on the bank;
how he hid there with his friends,
stoking rebellion in the wild.
,” I say, tilting my head
adjusting my earring,
you holding my coat and scarf
as if you are my servant,
laughing with eased waists,
as if we are sisters.
At the front desk,
you say, “go figure,” shrugging,
I nod, pay, tip, sun streaming,
warming everything it lights,
you disappear into the back office,
me into the street.
