Concrete Shore

Mark Nenadov

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.