Cylinder crosses the landscape
into the city just across Darby Creek
slides into Southwest, passing graffiti
scared bridges, trash covered banks
hurdles toward the turn of the Schuylkill
past the ivory of Penn into the temple of
the old railway gods. Continues northeast
flanged wheels slap cold iron past boat
houses, art museum and zoo into what
was once mansions of strawberry through
badlands past hulking factories of Kensington
with empty eyes tattered remnants of
Frankford, the sweet aroma of Bridesburg
chemical plants. The cylinder flies along
the track crosses the Poquessing Creek
out of the city. They sit not noticing in
designer suits and shoes, tap on computers
ipods over wine beer or coffee. Like those
who came before them, they are not concerned
about what’s left behind.
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