18 Days of River

Me, craving just one more day of river.

As the first storm passes,

With another racing in tomorrow nite.

Craving a river now familiar and routine,

Now suddenly on the cusp of fading into winter.

.

Meanwhile…

The sophisticates sit in the window-side table

Sipping their wine, pretty smiles and all.

On any other day, they would be girls,

Even angelic visions of beauty,

With the slightest turn of her head

Catching the light in a sparkle.

.

For a moment, I think

It’ll be better than the last time, the first time,

Every other time,

In that strange way things can be familiar

But seem new again.

.

Now, the window-side sophisticates look

More like a picture frame stuck in a hallway

Where nobody pauses.

Cruel.

Like a gift of time,

to the old man who never gives up.

.

On the way to the liquor store to grab a pack of smokes,

Something to hold on to while the line swings tight,

And straight,

Chasing one more day of river,

One more…

.

Me: Two day old socks, still dry,

no apparent odor yet.

Wet gear hangs from a line strung inside the truck,

While boxes full of damp and matted flies

Lie strewn about, everything scattered now,

Unlike the pictures I took, looking so neat then.

Sophisticated, maybe.

.

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