To the ducks swimming in ditch water:
I apologize, extending these hearty palms towards you
on behalf of my brothers and sisters speeding and
crashing around us both.
Believe me if my fingers were strong enough,
with my bare hands I’d crack concrete and let
your sisters, the green blades poke out again
to sniff the world.
The world...again, I apologize.
If I could I’d gently pry out the nails and boards
hammered into your brothers who still stand tall
extending grace--the gentlemen of your family.
I’d usher in the sun, who now only peeks in,
intimidated by the tall strongholds that are my fathers.
I would kick away bridges and let waters flood the
ditches, the cement, the signboards, the lights that
we call Ewen Avenue and call it River.
I’d let your cousins come out from hiding,
let the eagle soar once again who right now
gazes, glaze eyed from atop the streetlamp.
The beasts that tread carefully now, hawk eyed,
alert for our footsteps,
I’d let them come out and roam free.
And instead we will retreat into our caves,
on top of trees, and peek out at you with fear
and paint stories on walls, and learn again
to run with silent steps.
But now that I think of it,
we will still have opposable thumbs, and knowledge,
knowledge of tools and fire and hunger that
drives us out of our caves.
And these, my friends, are things I can’t apologize for.
But I’ll tell you a secret: they’re the real enemy.
I do not see an alternative ending,
but even then,
I offer you my sincerest apologies.
