Oh, my Anacostia –
do not sigh, do not weep –
beneath the overpass
your saviour’s waiting patiently
walking on the water,
that flow with poisons
from the naval yard.
He’s talking to the fallen reeds.
What will become of us?
A small, red sun makes way for night –
trails away like a tail light.
Is that Jesus on the water
talking to the fallen trees?
What will become of us?