Infrastructure Soul

Beneath the city the river fishing is good. I roam with tackle and pole below those wiggling tapeworms Wound around the cement underbelly of bridges Devouring the guts of the city’s glamour Down here where shadows are long as green moss And the voices of old black dudes echoes to casts “Damn motherer, you crossed my line!” Splash. To catch catfish on a wad of bread is a worthy fight. It takes shoulder chest and wrist and it’s not just the fish But the current of the Grand River pulling us over That sucks us in like a Thanksgiving ladle Into a whirlpool of brown gravy spilled on a dinner table. The trouble with catfish is that they swallow the hook Beyond the use of pliers And when they’re too small We cut the line With a lack of guilt like Old Testament God Throwing the creature back Hoping for a miracle. Logs are tipped over along the gooey shores And upon them painted turtles sleep Sunning like leprosy sores. Even from down here in the cool mist umbrella from summer We can see the smokestack vapor Twisting overhead like a genie rubbed from its lamp Thin at its head thick at its feet still stuck in its copper mother Arms outstretched like a Christ-cloud spooking the sun. There are other mysterious pipes Lips rust red as strawberries Bloomed from the banks dripping silver While mouthing a lullaby To the muck Like a whore at the end of her exhausting shift. A railroad bridge rattles to life Swollen by the axles of its returning soul A freight train pounding out the Blues A rhythm meant for bass and drums That part we don’t sing But the swing that keeps our foot stomping And in that noise Software girls flutter about like orange ribbons Untied from the hair of the downtown towers Drifting along the river trails at lunch Jogging in pony tails and pink shorty shorts Fingertips stuck into their cotton ears Ever on the lookout for us The creeps. The trick is to not make eye contact I mean us with them The fishermen the engineers the long forgotten wrenches Screwing cranks turning knobs yanking hooks from helpless fish Drilling the pylons through chemical gold That holds up this magnificent city.