© Bob Rixon
THE MARSHES BY THE HIGHWAY
A particular path
crosses a polluted tidal creek
where familiar monsters breed
in dark culverts.
A shopping cart in the mud
with a used syringe, limp condom,
a pair of socks, one shoe,
empty can of Colt 45,
worn tire nearby in the weeds,
an honest & visible pestilence.
A huge playground for rats
echoing genocide at high tide,
the Lenni Lenape Memorial
buried in fifty gallon drums
beside the late James Hoffa.
Somewhere along this great trading route
hidden by tall grasses & black muck,
we crouch beside a small campfire
like silent night herons.
Whenever we barter this paradise
for the price of tomorrow’s lunch,
we forget how we came here,
how we once spoke of ourselves,
burning our noble words with dead twigs.