Reeds on a Muddy Shore
Parting thick reeds
on the muddy shore
of memory, I spot
the M. V. Wickersham
with her narrow bow
and swept-back funnel
floating dockside in Haines.
Dreams of high life
in the storied north
had grown frail
with fear of nearing winter.
I fled Anchorage astride
my Impala, determined
to hurdle the span
of miles and mountains
to meet the southbound ferry
at its terminus. We ran
hard a long while and arrived
at Port Chilkoot
sweating slush and mud
with little time to spare.
I bought the fare to ride,
then turned to watch
the floating creature open
her mouth and swallow
my steed into her belly.
The ship, like a bobber,
floated up and down on Pacific
swells, my boarding ticket
the lure, and me,
the catch of the day.
No comments:
Post a Comment