Fountains

Pick up that shoebox and come with me--
the fountains have all gone strange
and either no one has noticed,
or everyone is ignoring them.

See? Here in Edgemere Park
the reflecting pool has grown something strange.
A pile of broken stones littered with cringing imps
makes a raceway for pouring water
gushing from a wound in the side
of a great, snaky, scaly Eastern dragon.
The dragonslayer poses just below
armed and armored as a Roman legionaire,
hasta grounded; butt-spike down at his feet,
point up over his shoulder;
plumed helm under his arm and
hair tossed by the wind.
His face is featureless.

Take out a chunk of sidewalk chalk;
I will draw a fist-sized circle
on the pavement. Genuflect, and
touch your thumb to the sacred spot.

I don't know why. I know only
that it's the right thing to do.

Follow me along the Blackstone canal
and through the cluster of converted workshops
to Webster Square where
the fountain has gone strange--
yesterday they were heroes of Labor:
three muscular men; African, Asian, European;
now their hammers and prybars lie cast aside
and they hoist steins aloft in a joyful toast,
water pouring out of their mugs,
into their mouths and out over their chins,
down over their chests and into the pool at their feet.

Take out the tiny box of kitchen matches
and the skein of embroidery floss;
and that bundle of twigs;
I will tie the twigs together just right
and we'll have a bush suitable for burning.
You light it on fire and tuck in this slip of paper--
don't read it! It's not for you.

I don't know why. I know only
that it's the right thing to do.

We need to be careful now--
follow me through undeveloped lots
and the basements of decaying buildings
paralleling Quinsigamond Avenue,
then down into the business district
where a fountain has grown up out of the ground,
strange and disturbing, in front of the Post Office--

Similar women
daggers in hand
face each other--
one wild and hateful,
one calm and determined;
a man lies face down in the pool between them,
hands manacled behind his back.

Take out the harmonica;
the chorus goes like this:
“Did Your son redeem the sins of gods and men?”

I don't know why. I know only
that it's the right thing to do.