This was all I got out of a five week hitch on the rivers. oh well, better than nothing.
Seated upon a coil of line
On the head of a towboat
Shrouded in the fog
That rose, interminable from the
Brown serpentine line of
That ancient river was a man.
Thousands of miles from what he loved
What granted meaning.
Eleven months gone now
In a blur of displacement
And commuting, punctuated
Only by notable highlights
And the stubborn ghosts
Of the past, their corporal
Form sticking stubbornly
To the secret inner workings of his mind.
The sanctuary violated.
A consciousness marred, yet subtly
Improved by the vagaries of
The world, and the callous, wanton
Hate the people that walked through it so frequently
And tragically, displayed.
So few are good to one another.
So he will float perpetually
In escape amongst the brown water,
Industrial ratchets, steel cable,
Kevlar lines, cheater pipes, and sweat.
He will cleave these tows in half
And force them through locks one
Cut at a time until the process,
The barges, each lock, and every inch
Of river becomes part of his soul.
And someday, perhaps, he will find peace.
Just around that next bend.