I’ll ramble down the riverside
flying before the stage
of Detroit’s dilated horizon
like a sleepless seagull.
Passing strange sculptures
eyed by a family of mallard ducks
gliding as though I were a pigeon
finding a weary bearded man
who is busy not catching fish.
I’ll appear for our picnic
with our lunch in hand
in the grass by the silent train
you and I will sit there gingerly
as the river returns with its goods
licking the bare concrete shore.