It’s a shoe-store city that smells of what
rivers leave behind.
There is a bit of sky left, and insistent,
distant water, a headache for days.
If I see another bridge from street level;
If I see one more desk from my car,
one more Coke in a bucket,
or suspicious package on the road.
The whole thing is a metal plate above a hole
and it bounces, it squeaks, but will not break.
I know, because I’m trying to break it
when you, Al Sharpton, come out of the restaurant,
all rings and entourage, all shortness
and you say, “Hey,” and I say, “Hey.”
You are Fly Fishing in the Catskills, a great
American novel about justice and revenge.
I want to smell your dinner; I want you to explain
your shoes. I am you, Reverend Al. I am you.