Erica Minton

SLOBS

We are slobs in the sun
rubbing sand from our grubby heels,
toes glittering in the Ohio
which slops and hurls itself at us.
No one gets baptized here—
it wouldn’t purify you, only turn
your starchy robe a green
that won’t wash out. We cup
our hands, scoop river foam
and dare one another to put lips to it.
We are slobs, sunning, tossing
pennies that glint like struck flint,
watching them sink into slapping waves.
We’re out of secrets, so
we pester birds. They catch on,
gang up, pester back. The sun shifts,
tuning to new towns, whiter waters.
It takes the birds with it, leaves us
slop, copper, Ohio.