A sky god laments unintended consequences, observing the artery that injects the city with
Suburban sanguines resigned to short trip long lines.
Mr. Shirley never lived to see the six figure thousands daily realize his vision atop his slitherslow
Farther below, heads sway back and forth in unison like temporary bulrushes whose rhythms are
enforced by trafical breezes dancing over an asphalted current. Only liars want the river today.
Downhill currents defy gravity, speed slows as two fifths of the Defense Department drifts by,
and the tourist landmarks peek out the tops of their heads tentatively to see what’s coming,
before suddenly disappearing into the gray leviathan that is the target of the bullrushers.
This is not a river for leisure, like those under innertubed cheerios carrying happy children and
watchful mothers from point a to point b.
Time is of the essence and the current is weak at 8:13.
Four more, three more, two more years a woman at the speed of walk thinks, “then I am so
fucking done with ‘job with great benefits.’” Spoken with conviction as if she is the first to say
Son, daughter, husband.
Caloried, colleged, chemoed.
Henry G’s is a safe place with privacy glass everywhere.
Where you can be honest about how you feel about your path,
and your boss,
who can’t hear or see you cry behind your sunglasses from his office across the Potomac.
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