Ode to The City and County
By Freddy Bosco
We go where the water is.
We follow the flow,
we go, we know on our search
to be where we can sip
and wash and water our crops.
Beans and corn
and wheat bloom beneath
our feet as far as the eye
can see. Once the buffalo
owned all of this,
thousands of years ago
before tomahawk
and bow and arrow
reigned for a moment supreme.
Guns and dollars
succeeded gold and silver
boom and bust again and again.
Like oil, traded wildly
up and down 17th Street
where marble palaces
trimmed with brass
accepted the boots
and polished brogans
of brokers who leveraged
capital for land and promises
of gleaming futures.
‘Twas ever thus:
whispers on pillows
erupted into wars
as news of investments
spread ferociously
upending carts of commerce.
Ghost buildings betrayed
careful management
while fiber optics
sizzled crackling contracts
on a global reach.
Betimes, word spread
that fresh air, plentiful jobs
and legal weed were here,
drawing freelance laborers
to our high-plains desert.
Where to stay? Why not
erect wantonly luxurious
mondo condo plywood palaces
for all but po’ folk?
“Surplus people” in parlance
of city planners, put hordes
onto spaces seeking only
shelter. “Gimme shelter!”
Denver: the litmus test
of existential reality.
If we can dream of a great city
we can build it. But
whose dream is it? ■