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Hard Driving


    Hard Driving


    So I was dragging the broad riverbed, and

    looking anxiously to shore to see

    if anyone would help --

    Someone could be drowning, I told them.

    A waterman trusted the wrong bit of pier,

    leaning out too far, trusting

    that next plank to be as strong as the rest.


    Now the creek is full of flotstam, and

    we could mount a rescue, retrieve the lost

    repair the damage -- if

    if you all weren't on the shore gloating,

    thinking "Well, that's one less

    water rat to worry about, at

    least for a while." "A shame we can't take credit."

    Not everyone is talking, but

    I can hear the muttering, the lapping of

    indifferent water on the shoreline, the

    whine of my winch that cannot hook anything useful.

    This poem is one of many published by the EServer, a nonprofit collective.