Saturday Poem / Sunday Matinee
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I moved again,
back to the city's daily driving pulse,
secure in a high-rise condo,
my watch tower.
I step onto the front patio without a sweater.
the muddy Monongahela.
Day trippers race river boats
ferrying baseball fans from an afternoon game,
a reminder to call for Pirate tickets.
Pittsburgh rivers play Sundays.
I drift into the hazy rhythm of miniature roads and rivers,
a documentary in down tempo
jarred by an ambulance
wailing into the fast lane across the Fort Pitt Bridge,
its blinking police escort a slow fade
to the Parkway East.
Pittsburgh hospitals labor Sundays.
At the confluence of three rivers,
a fountain geysers two hundred feet;
its pumps grind from daylight to dark.
In sun-setting fire, pleasure boats respect
coal barges tugging west to power plants
down the oil-streaked Ohio.
Pittsburgh rivers work Sundays.
Cue the crossfade:
sun and electric dim the city scape.
The glow remains as I fade within.
First Published September 1, 2012 12:00 am