I tore down the interstate

The city once rejoiced

being born'd from wild, muddy waters

and living a wild, muddy life

'til the serpent came...



I tried to ignore the threatening groans behind me,

I wanted to enjoy this hot summer riverwind

within this, my urban village.



But eventually I had to turn and face the monster behind.

For the river in my city had been cut off from humanity -

And humanity from the river -

by means of a colossal road

Towering overhead, rumbling incoherently,

It hollered down at me.

It moaned, roared, dusty-raftered menace it

breathed hot and loud upon me.



And I, in tar-hot anger, hollered back.

"Enough!" I yelled. "To hell with you and

your rampage through our village!"

And I tore down the interstate.



Hammer and sweat-blackened arms,

I destroyed this giant altar to the false gods of our society.

I knocked over the pillars and cast its stones

upon the empty concrete below.

The highway, caught off guard by my bold confrontation,

screeched in its demise and

for a long time its horrible scream was heard.



But eventually the dust cleared and

the riverfront rested, and the Ohio rolled by.



Where the stones landed, I built houses.

Simple riverfront shanties of the finest used concrete.

I dug up the pavement and, to the delight of the sun above,

planted willows and sycamore and river birch,

returning them home.



Although no one was physically hurt,

many thought they were dying.

They had tied their destiny to the highway and,

with its death, they felt dead as well.



But the city, she rejoiced.

She was born again, baptized in wild, muddy waters

which had been lost, but were no longer.