This morning at the water’s edge
Near the wastewater plant at 10 am,
I saw three friends with a bonfire smoking
And music playing on someone’s phone
And I kept on running and left them behind
And went back to my house and drew the blinds.
I cleaned all the floors and prepared for the week,
And I thought about scheduling several things.
And the river looks more the same than not
As it did on the day McKinley was shot
And those who live by it know better than most
The way that time turns us all into ghosts.
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