The City
The river
still finds its brown way
through the city's glass
and concrete canyons
until finally reaching
the bay. Its tidal breath
has become my own.
I live near its mouth.
I was not born here
but have spent more
than half my life
a citizen of its urban sprawl.
The roots I've sunk
hang off a sense of home.
There is an ease
in living here where the old
and the new, the familiar
and strange exist
in counterpoint and house
the needs of the gregarious
and the chafed nerves
of the recluse. Cafes
serve good coffee.
In the shadows
of apartment towers,
old men can shuffle easily
down the gentle slope
of asphalt paths,
carrying words or a rod
and sit quietly
at the water's edge
with their thoughts,
fishing for bream or God.
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