Ivy swallows a telephone pole. From the bottom up green palms turning red with fall surround wires and circuits, 3 silver drums. In the end, in the end end nature overcomes everything. Sprouts through concrete. Green tufts through bricks. Why do we keep trying to mow, pluck, prune, contain the things we will become?
Everyone hates working here. I can see it. Walking in while a reporter is slumping out. He can’t even make eye contact when he says my name. Grumps abound. Incompetence around. Someday I hope to work for myself.
Yesterday, I was trying to find a quiet space in the building to record a poem – I couldn’t. The morgue where we keep old newspapers is the only place no one ever goes, but it’s the dungeon and next to the heating/air unit that roars like a crematorium. Where will I go in the winter? When it’s too cold to walk to the library? I walked through the echoing hallway, up in stead of down which is the direction I normally go – and I found a landing where you can see the roof. two windows on either side and a locked door. Odd that I’ve been here for 5 years and never seen this view before.
Everyone is smoking. A woman coughed in her car and a smoke cloud poofed like dirty cotton. A man in red suspenders leaned against a nursing home. Smoke. Exhale. Flick.
A week ago we were preparing for Westwater canyon. A week ago! The water brown ice, the boats lapping, the silent nerves of everyone. What would happen? Would we flip? Every year the water changes. No matter how many times we run it – the river never stays the same.
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