the brisk night air carries day old dreams
still fresh enough to consume
no secret landings of birds out in the channel
to report and tug traffic is slow
the 2nd Street Bridge traffic,
a molasses of the hour moving
back and forth waiting
for that hint of the sun to melt
into more stale routine programming
Tag Archives: wharf
the boys of summer
it doesn’t hurt anymore / the old mad man on the wharf
wearing too / tight too dirty bike shorts screams
calls me an asshole
screaming back and he shrinks / us both brain-cooked from heat and chasing sleep
or maybe it was the son of wharf possum , the moon commuting home after shift
it’s just the wharf possum, me, and that pop-eyed moon.
one must wear a shroud and act like a river ghost. this is no place to flaunt alleged humanness.
this world engine runs slow and lean in the early morning hours. the world beneath the river reflects forth.
do not answer if one asks for coffee or candied ginger. the first robin sang at five til four.
not long after the moon disappeared a man in a sweaty white t-shirt stalked quickly up the wharf, the stains shaped like lunar craters.
River City Mick 