Scott Fountain

There is a renaissance fountain
Of white Italian marble
In a city park. On occasion
I still go there, for it holds
The magic of my childhood.
My grandfather and I would visit it
On summer afternoons.
He would always open
His pocket change holder,
In slow motion and pick
Out a coin for me to toss
In the water with my wish.
In the sounds of the
Streams spraying upward,
In the glint of silver coins through
The water, I think of him.

There is a renaissance fountain
Of white Italian marble,
That my grandfather
And I would visit,
That holds all my old wishes,
The heavy heartfelt ones
That sink swiftly in the turbid
Waters and lie invisible
On colored tile bottom
Grown over with algae.
They remain unseen and
Waiting, as requests from
The devout sometimes await
God's granting. Wishes
Are secular prayers.
I know this, for whenever
I hold a Mercury dime or
Indian-head nickel
I wish he were here.