Christopher J. Scalia

Singing Along to Billy Joel at My Roommate's First Wedding

River Run

You run along the rocky, wooded path

that overlooks the river you’ve long loved.

The view is irresistible—slow down,

look down, appreciate the peaceful scene:

the oaks with thick green leaves that shade you here,

the bone-white sycamores along the bank,

the water’s broad and steady run that cuts

beneath the distant, looming highway bridge—

familiar sights you recollect on days

you’re trapped between your dreary office walls.

That’s why you notice that the water’s flow

seems higher, faster, wilder than last month,

although there’s been no rain in weeks. That’s odd.

You run upstream a quarter mile or so

to get a better view of the riverscape

and notice, wedged against the river’s flow,

a wall of stones. Waist high, slipshod, it spans

across Virginia’s banks to Maryland.

Above these rocks, the water stalls, collects,

and swirls impatiently, awaiting its

descent between the cracks. What trickles through

now gathers in a calmer flow—then speeds

downstream, much grander for the obstacle.

You understand the park is not maintained

by elves or magic spells; it’s something else

that clears the fallen trees from paths, repairs

wood steps. But this odd wall is not the work

of park rangers or eager Eagle Scouts.

Jog further up the path to where your ken

includes the river’s width, its curious

cascade—and now a man, undressed, who wades

against the water’s strength. His tan skin dangles

from his bones, a garment he’s too slight to fill.

A long gray beard drips from his chin. He walks

on guard against unsteady stones, sharp rocks,

slick lurking snakes, and stops midstream to crouch

and run his hands along the river bed.

His fingers dig into the gritty muck

until they pry a rock loose from the sand.

He grasps, then lifts, now pauses—heaves the stone

from underwater, to his thighs. The rock

is smooth and slippery, so he adjusts

his grip, then lugs it to the shallow flow

beneath his river-changing wall and fits

it on a ledge of other stones to slow

this body’s passage to the Chesapeake.

You watch, amazed, that one eccentric man

with brazen, naked will would dare to shape

this massive watercourse with his bare hands.

Some years from now, you’ll drive

along the highway bridge, point to those rocks,

and tell this story to your passengers.

But now you redirect your course along the trails,

now less familiar, leading you back home.

We gathered in a circle, holding hands—

So young, just weeks from college graduation—

To sing together with “Piano Man.”

The newlyweds would fight but had big plans,

An open bar—just cause to tie one on

And gather in a circle, holding hands.

I stood beside her mom, who held a can

And did not seem impressed with her new son,

But swayed with us to sing “Piano Man.”

Flashbacks of junior high, when no one danced

Until the deejay played that old slow song.

We gathered in a circle, holding hands.

Like flipping through found faded photographs,

A pang of sadness waltzed in with the fun

Of la-dee-da-ing with “Piano Man.”

Now “Scenes from An Italian Restaurant”

Seems apt: kids marry, split, go home again.

That hadn’t happened yet, so we held hands

And made a serenade of “Piano Man.”

Christopher J. Scalia is a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute. His poems and stories have appeared in Measure, First Things, Raintown Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Virginia with his wife and children.