a river by my home.

today it smells like
gasoline
the sour garbage rot
and tainted like addiction,
the thought of being stuck;
when i inhale, i feel it
lodging in my brain like
the west-side garbage dam.

my stupidest cousin
gulped the wood-brown water
with tiny cheekbones
and vomited an infinity of
cardboard and plastic and
powder
into his fingers.

another day cops swarmed along
our river
like mosquitoes waiting for skin;
they made promises and
did nothing, of course
and we held another funeral
by the water's edge.

another day my brothers sat two-to-a-canoe
and pulled out filth
with fishing-nets,
treasures stained and second-hand,
and they returned with smiles and
never enough.

tomorrow will smell like today
which smells like yesterday,
and no one here knows anything
except for that.

doctors pulled lice out of our hair
and worms out of our stomachs
and drugs out of our pockets
and smoke out of our lungs
until nothing was left
but river.

i will stay waiting by the water.