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.