Ode: On the Schuylkill

Borne by the river’s back, boat-legions rolled

    in search of commerce, bridges to build;

souls, cargo (heavy, light), bought & sold,

    coffers waiting in Philly to be filled.

Ladies leaped gingerly onto green banks,

    bound in satin or lace, versed in politesse or no,

        & walked rote patterns, inscribed insignias in the air;

crew-ship kids, underlings already in their ranks,

    sought to make the landing show-offy, slow,

       hulked a hundred yards from a drunken fair.

Add a century, an Expressway looms over

   the murk— wave-sounds, squeals, & metal—

which the Schuylkill cannot answer, hovering

    under— slow-moving, patient, & settled.

The river’s mind is limpid— the human race

   churns around it restlessly, adding bodies

      shorn of dignity, bloated, pulp-bloody, blue,

having carried burdens the river never dreams

    of, emptiness so incorrigible the Schuylkill’s face

         registers nothing but disinterested waves— tender, true.

The Over-brain, peering in, questioning, elevates

    the Schuylkill’s mystery into frozen heat—

truth & beauty buoyed up in the browning, decay, fate

    of all water-bodies prone to human meat—

I sit on the edge, watching overhanging leaves,

    frozen myself by the gross negligence

      of what lies beneath the river’s surface,

& my own, as the summer sun inverts, grieves

     for the masses, exploring no penitence

        as I am, grounded, here, & diving for purpose—