Dirty Water

And with my own eyes I see her,
breast teasing the orange creek,
head cocked backwards,
anchoring it softly
into the water
that Sam calls shit water,
that my dad calls golden river.
Toes pressed against the rusting dock,
little moles sitting on her legs like flies,
she hums.
I shake,
tossing gravel into the empty ginger ale can beside me,
knees in the wet dirt.
I steady myself
to the rhythm of the train.
She can not feel it
the throbbing beat
pulsating underneath,
balancing on the tracks that once carried
Franklin D Roosevelt
and Billy, whose needle went too far up his arm
so they took him to Earnshaw,
no more spots in the yard.
They sit in leather seats
that smell like pink erasers and cigarettes
and stare out those windows
with uneasy eyes and packed lunches,
thanking god they don’t have to stop
and stay in Littleton, West Virginia.
But they don’t get to watch her
with their own eyes,
this heaven at 6pm,
this dying, bird like creature, kicking,
teaching herself to swim
in the dirty water.