ironically,
they will not come up, not
from the shadowy waters
which silenced their fall, carried
them through the polluted depths,
drifted them through the darkness like two
pieces of litter, a beer can and an
empty bag of chips.

perhaps they would come up, like she asks.
perhaps they would shake off the murky
drops and climb the rusted metallic rungs
to take hold of a flare,
to wave it, raising a memorial of neon smoke
to the blaring horns, cursing lips and jutting fingers
saved for them last night.

and perhaps then
we would thank them,
shake their shimmering hands,
nod our heads and pretend to think twice
about an icy river current
45 feet below, how it would feel
seeping into our boots, running through our
toes, clinging our satin pants close to our thighs,
clotting our throats with polluted muck,

but no.
they won't come up, not now, not ever.
and the Hackensack river will froth under a crowded drawbridge
tomorrow.

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