Watching The River Flow

that great river fed
by whatever can be dammed
and made to flow its way,
is a drowning flood.
No one can count
all the bodies it holds
in its depths, how many dead
it grinds along its bed
with its implacable current.
Choosing to be oblivious to that
you dip yourself into it, then

climb out and dry yourself 
with an ever-convenient flag,
end up sitting on the bank
reveling in its apparent beauty,
choosing to forget
how it has been fed,
how it was turned to
its current course, 
how many less fortunate than you
could not climb out
once it had taken them. 
Instead, you hum
a Bob Dylan song
about sitting on a bank of sand
with people disagreeing all around.
It’s pleasant to remember 
old songs,
sentimental favorites,
at such moments 
as the bank of sand
begins, unnoticed,
to crumble out from
under you.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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