sighs along the north fork (oh, shenandoah)

the river up home
late afternoon in november
has no fishermen
to keep it company;
a new sign
by the old make-out lot
says you can’t
fish anymore. SUVs
and little old pickups
crush the causeway one
cement instant
at a time, indifferent.
the same cement
where i used to catch the sun
in a tank and cutoffs,
dreaming out loud at
the rushing currents
where you used to swim,
slipping over the
tricky sun-hidden bottoms.
sign says you can’t
swim there anymore, either.
even for november, it’s still;
not cold enough for frost, but
the leaves long gone,
husks of trees no
longer any seclusion
for a lone drunk
or a couple thinking
they were in love;
we’re the only ones here now,
the river and me,
both too old and careworn
for cutoffs or pretenses.