A Meditation On Fort Pond

by James Kwapisz

Loudly crowding around the pond,
a tangled maze of summer homes and mansions,
owned—possessed—by self-made narcissists—
czars in Montauk strap-back caps
who slither these streets
and hiss at you
issuing venomous glares
at the tear in your flannel
or the rip in your shoe.
 
They can keep their big beach homes—
their fancy rectangles,
and all their skewed angles
that somehow uphold
their cold, material hells.
 
As separate as the pond may be,
it, too, is not free of hierarchy—
but whereas one is of wants
the other is of needs.
 
And as calm as the pond may seem,
an image could never convey
the chaos that lurks beneath.
 
Occasionally a fish
will breach the surface,
reminding you in ripples
of the echoes
of a deeper silence.