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? ■