The Fishermen At&Nbsp;Guasti&Nbsp;Park Poem by Maurya Simon

In the first days of summer
the three elms, those slightly
opened fans, unfold
their shadows across the river.
Two dogs arrive exhausted,
tongues dripping, and settle
down near the frogbait jars.
Aiming their poles
toward the center of water,
the Sunday fishermen watch
the light pirouette off
the opposite shore.
Their wives peel onions,
open wine, do their nails.
Most of the men think
as little about gravity
as they do about war and
the weightlessness of time.
How could they know that
it is only the single, collective
thought of their abandoned childhoods
that keeps the world afloat?