On the Mississippi for some Tourists

Her seams, you think you see them,
by the Industrial Canal
and as the rainwater falls heavy and black
from the downspout of the municipal
overflow emergency system.

But it is just another fool tributary,
the prattle of empty bottles
against wood bobbing
and petticoat grime.

Sky father in the rust red eye
of the tide buoy calling mind
from the cracked concrete dock
where we had thought
to shelter from our sires,

yet the sounds of traffic
and her flat silence before us
forbid it
and you disappear by the tin scent
of the evening

2-1-14, Frenchmen St

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