In the middle of a river, I listen
to the businessman comparing business
to an orchestra, each instrument
each part a part of the whole.
The orchestra, however,
compares itself to a river–
flutes of light, cellos bubbling along
in the push and flow
of adagio, crescendo,
allegro–in rushes and deep swirling.
But this current river
compares itself placidly
to a business, all its appropriate
working in unison
toward singular goals, closing up shop
here, opening there,
reorganizing itself now
through a downturn of driftwood,
so the two of us stop
humming our various tunes
and backpaddle furiously in order
not to go bankrupt, get flat, or wet.
Old Man Laughing
(Ghost Road Press, 2007]
Read Robert King's poetry
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