Reeds on a Muddy Shore

 There was a time I was afflicted with a case of wanderlust that only traveling could cure. The following poem illustrates a time in Alaska.

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.