Riversong

Behind, below the trailer we called home,
The Poteau River tracked on westward
Toward the border, Coaldale and Hontubby,
southeastern hills of the old Indian Territory
where the Choctaw had made their home.
Eventually it would snake through its namesake
To fall into the Arkansas at Fort Smith,
To become a mighty, major river at last.

Behind, below the trailer we called home,
The Poteau River ran shallow and brown,
Shadowed with runoff from the chicken plant,
The pulpwood mill, the furniture factory,
The chicken houses spotting the county.
We were advised not to eat the fish,
But set out trotlines anyway, ran them daily
In a small, leaky, flat-bottomed boat.

Behind, below the trailer we called home,
I sat for hours on various stumps and logs
Watching flecks of yellow foam pool
Along the quiet shallows, listening
To my heart thudding to the whippoorwills,
The slow croak of Buddha-like bullfrogs,
Witnesses to the casual devastation,
The slide and dance of algae in the sun.

Behind, below the trailer we called home,
The Poteau River tracks on westward,
wandering shallow and brown,
past where I sat for hours on various stumps and logs,
another witness to the casual devastation.