5th Of September On Holden Street

If I were that river where
catfish are jumpin'
the bend that
sprouts a clear divide
would never hold
bodies, it would be
sacred and cleansed
and the madness of
what goes on in the
city after dark would
not exist.
Yet.
Behnk, 18, was found
floating feet up in the
Monongahela, a lock
cold as a dead cobra
draped around his body.
In the dark, electric
moons dangle above
the muscles of branches,
their muteness as
melancholy as a sour
party horn
as this street is hollowed
out for the inching of
pedestrians with
knapsacks, auto insects,
bikes strapped with
goods and produce.
Tonight
a heat wave of insomnia will
come
like windowwashers to
my door of this
hundred year old house
and watch me
carefully rip away
the shingles of its rooftop
as I push my bare legs
through the debri into
liquid sky, the drain in
the kitchen sink
gurgling
murder, murder
in the city.