The Oshawa is an urban creek:
A rarity in that it runs under the sun and not
under the ground. It is pretty clean for a city stream,
just the usual junk -- lots and lots of grocery carts.

Grocery carts to not belong in the Oshawa, or
any other watercourse, but there they are.
They may not belong but the creek doesn't know that
the Oshawa just flows happily around and through.

The carts settle in to the stream bed. The current
does its thing piling sand here scouring it out there,
building bars and digging holes in accordance with
the practice and tradition of flowing water.

I don’t belong in Oshawa, my heart lies in the west
Under the big sky, and north on the mud flats
Of the Moose River. But by consequence
Of arrogance, injury chance, and sloth here I am.

Like the grocery cart in the Oshawa creek
I am slowly settling in, an unnatural alien being
sunk into the alien soil in accordance with
the practice and tradition of flowing time