And what of the rivers

And what of the rivers, where one used to drink, cup handed and smiling? It happened in secret, behind the clown nose and jive shows, and they only charged a buck-what a deal. Cutting fish heads they count the dead, laying them back where their found. They don't loose count for it takes only a lunch break, paddling through plastic waters that smell of profit to the right noses. We have traded water for air in rivers of wheels, spatting down the 101. And kids pealing orange shaped juice boxes-instead of oranges. Sometimes I envy the Sun, so far away, and burning bright; but even He lives cursed to consume and can not touch be touched, get close enough to smell the scent of life before it is stretched, ambiguous and dead. In time, only ghosts will be able to count all the money they have made.