Rock Creek
by Carol Church


    People don't come here, but their trash still does.
    Past the playing fields, beyond the parking lot, slammed up against the interstate.
    Science calls this an edge. It tries not to be ugly.

    Some ducks are slipping past the jam-up,
    the float of sticks and soda bottles, rusting metal, road-bald tires.
    And there's been a raccoon,s
    but raccoons like this stuff. They adapt pretty well;
    licking our wrappers, eating the last warbler's eggs.

    These pieces are all we have left now.
    Here's what I can walk to. Here's what they call "park."
    But it hurts me.
    I don't want to love it,
    it's dying. They salt the roads heavy, just up the slope.






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