In the silt

Pittsburgh was built

in the flood plain

and I grew with

roots splayed

in the silt

on the street

that gets left behind.

I sink my claws

into cracks

in the concrete

carved by repeated

aquatic barrage.

I’ve learned to

scale hillsides,

and bridge supports,

and telephone poles.

Knees full of cinders

and splinters.

Knees on legs

that steady me

on the soft ground

of subsided mines,

of mudslides,

and vow to be

an altruistic pier

at every brown,

rushing

confluence.