Repeat the Chorus
If you could float, like an unmoored vessel
over the river's high water, swept through
banked trees up to their waists in spring cleaning,
I'd hope you would find yourself crashed, washed ashore
here in this parking lot where the low tide
requires handicap plates and swim trunks.
Land simply, harbored in the swelling of ebb and flow
to some place quiet like a pioneer home.
Far upstream from where trust funds with haircuts and
sideways caps stomp and holler at recollections of the Depression,
shaking the floor until it collapses.
Where below the floorboards and dust,
a veiled memorial continues to be stomped on, hollered at,
now repeat the chorus two more times!
No, I hope you come to shore closer to home,
right next to where no memory needs to be revealed
and the word "reconstruction" means to mortar some bricks,
not to paint over rubble and call it preservation.
No one is coming, and I don't think anybody
is going to be parking down here for a while.
So, what do you say, Tom Sawyer,
can I be your [redcated] Jim?
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