SUBJECT>The Fish Beneath The Ice POSTER>Si mon EMAIL> DATE>1111636754 IP_ADDRESS>gso163-23-113.triad.rr.com PREVIOUS> NEXT> 85360 85380 IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>

I think of the fish beneath
the ice at Central park.
Not The Central Park, but ours.
In summer, our grassy banks
slick with goose shit. Our chained swings,
pissy cement tunnels, our old
broken down fire truck we drove
away, are still driving.

Winter was shades, blade mapped, slush
that froze our toes. Snowpants praying,
I peeked for down looking up.
Where we gripped the rusty railing
because I like the way gripped sounds,
now, 38 years later.
If you complain that I’ve taken
the reader out of the poem,

so what. Tell it to the fish
that are shocked by our stupid faces.
I live in a land held up
by invisible formulas.
Even now the squirrels whisper
in attics. Further off, sirens call.