After the cruise I am standing on the north end of the wharf, smoking my pipe. This is my communion with the river. I give it my joy. I give it my pain. It is older and wiser than me. My back to the city that resembles less and less each day the place I moved to 11 years ago. Home. The cityscape is a crime scene left to rot. That scimitar moon watching over, bending my eye back towards the river. This kiss of fall, one of those teases. I give my resentments to the river, the way I learned in AA meetings. Hold onto nothing or it will hold on to you. I allow my mind to empty with the pipe smoke dissipating in the sunset air.