Little finger
of a moat
protect one side of this city
from another, neither better
for this strip of bay water.

One freeway
to tuck
under the other:
mother daughter,
shy toddler
of an on-ramp.

A lap of wet clothes
and a bottle,
a tramp and a backpack gang
tagging the insides
of factories.

They leave they’ll leave eventually.

Silt, settling
in your belly,
melting trench songs
men sang
in the days of industry
will fill you up, give herons
a place to step, drink
fish, and all of this,
these sad last
signs of settlement
will muddy-up.