Northbound train
materializing out of the fog
erased back into it
this is the time of watchmen
the time of switchmen
the time of drawbridge operators
patrolling the edges of the no-scape
the noise of interstate traffic echoing off downtown buildings
pushed up against the river, against erasure
against
living at the edge of visibility
hoping where a foot is planted is solid
and not one more dream of a new lunar year
Ice clings to the bottom of the paddlewheel.
It is a balmy 32 degrees 2 days after the first arctic blast of winter.
A light show falls on the wharf at almost 8:30 pm,
the quiet interrupted by tug boat traffic northbound
out of the turn
the nights are getting warmer
and that kiss of 2am dew
will feel less sloppy less frenetic
less like that fumbling teenage lip lock
in the church basement
the river is calm for now
yet the ducks still explore the wharf
dry as it is, expecting to swim
there are no girls with auburn hair
here to sing me into the water
and into the imagining
that I am not a duck
searching midnight basements
for the first hint of dew
