This black spindly suburban tree
grown up from shallow waters
on a funny little island
is older than the row upon row
of particle board, more aged than
the little islands in the wide streams
of dark glistening pavement.
As you navigate the water-ways,
the outward shooting beams of light
intimate the life-works of those
who are enclosed within the island walls.
The orange glows let on that
housing, homes, furniture and being comfortable
are very odd.
Why is there even a need for all of it?
What is the purpose for it all?
Who actually needs
blow-dryers, curling rods, and hot rollers?
Why learn anything; why do anything?
Do you think you will make
a shadow across the beams of light?
Do you think you will make a dent in
the SubUrban RiverFolk world?
Is a dent in even one life
purpose enough to try?