Dividends

From the shore, barges slip past 

and we could try to count cargo. 

We watch the markets swell, 

bigger than dollars or ducats can hold; 

we watch them strain against our concrete monuments, 

popping rivets like tired old buttons. 

Is it odd that 

the line goes up 

and no one is applauded? 

Birdsong crinkles frigid morning air 

and no one is applauded. 

We are owed these things, our quarterly earnings 

     neither moth nor rust corrupts, 

by the very soil. 

I think that our happiness 

can sometimes be like this: stowed 

away, expected to grow. 

I think we watch the mammoth boats 

crawl lithe across the water and know 

that they are sailing for us, 

holds light for now.