Pond from Naturale by Joe Kenkel

Between the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth hours of the morning
Watch for the imposing river to wind south and spool into me.
I, the grandchild, a great grandchild of construction waste taking up space.

But I did not wind up down here to make you wiser,
I wound up down here, ponding, growing wider

Wide, wide, wider

Spilling out beneath prisms, lawn fountain mechanisms, and in the blooming shade
Beneath the divisions where stale, glistening,
cul-de-sac minds sit heartless with age.
Beneath the deep lake, the place of Miss Kate, screaming obscenities at the state.

But I did not wind up down here to make you quieter,
I wound up down here, ponding, growing wider

Wide, wide, wider

Let’s stop and imagine one small thing, for your consideration:
What if I was some golden, spirit child sent for your generation?
If I am, if I’m not, I’ll sit digging my thumbs in the southern pavement
And burrow in, ancient rivers, like spiders competing
Grown old, but grown wider.

Wide, wide, wider

• Birmingham