The dam, built on the downstream
End of town, chevron shaped,
Concrete, with blocks of broken
Concrete laced with rusted rebar
Below, to break up the flow
Of only an inch or two of water
(Though some 80 feet wide),
Muddy, greasy green and brown,
That slid in a silken sheet over its brim.
We used to dare each other to walk
Across the top, on a foot’s width
Of flatness, the water boiling
Around our naked feet, slipping
With each step on a thin layer
Of algae. None of my friends fell,
Though many others had, breaking
Bones and stabbed by iron rods.
The sliding fall was fast. Some died.
(Today there are warning signs
And fences to forestall foolishness
Masquerading as youthful bravery.)
I tried it once and turned around
After shuffling only five feet across.
I suffered the humiliation of jeers,
Though my feat wasn't surpassed
By my peers. Like water, it passed.
I fished for pike beneath the dam
And forgot I might have joined them.
