The Amazon

I wash my hands in the river,
The river is not me
I fall in
And out my pockets flow
Dollars, cents, and quarters
Glow, and now I row

Downstream where the fishes grow.
I see the factory on the riverbank,
Belching soot and needs
To the half-knowing world
Full of its own manic greed.

With my floatilla of pennies,
Drunk dimes, quiet quarters
I go toward the factory
And the factory comes toward me
We meet, touching dirty claws.

I sink down to the riverbed,
See the bright fish nose over me
Float, enraptured quiet
The scales tickle my feet
Which I let them eat.
There is no better place than here.