It’s the river
thick with flow
a moving mass
of air over motion
full of whispers
shadowed in
the past of me
near where
street cars
pound metal
and smoke stacks
send signals
raining soot in
alleys and corners
where pain and sweat
speak of days
of youth
once thought
never to end
where prayers
surfaced in storms
and angels
passed over
the windows
in the room
where I
looked down
Roger Singer 