There’s this river underground

the birds sing of it as though

it were a gem as though a gem

 

we’re something they had interest in

though perhaps my translators

but no don’t let me blame them

 

this river at times packed

with grey slush moving fast

enough that the fish wish they

 

had eyes but here on the lost

real estate development the

philosophers have left

 

with the fabled food trucks

that won’t return

my boss, a collector of insomniacs walks the halls on stilts, examines every coffee cup, for progress and, avoids the stairs today is Friday, and the small dog always by her side, will have its nails cut, when we hear the yelping we instinctively check our 401(k)s, and count the leaves of the cypress, as our greatest asset, in a moment the weekend will, begin and the dreams we share, shift to images of pirate ships, chained to a monstrous wave of silver fish

a fish through the hands will write a list of future accomplishments gulp the last tepid tea and remember I’m somehow the narrator though my training is in watch repair once a thriving industry in days when many people were killed by and these days you don’t know who to believe when you take your pants off but that’s the way it’s always been at least when you climb that tree to look at the moon you can just remember the sound of the first sparrow through her curls