If It Burns, Flow Sweet Water, Flow Poem by John W. McEwers

Sugar cubes in rivers
make poor boats.
The taste is nice but
when they
when they dissolve
and they will dissolve
when they they will drop
and disappear like phosphorus
in a flash of fire-light
like fireworks
or fireflies

but all I see are tires
burning tires
rolling comfortably down a brown river
toward whatever second end

and the car is nothing but a steel cage now
of rust and rotten leather
where it fell from the bridge
with you in it, Robert,
and you splashed down
deep
deep
gone.