Thursday, June 23, 2022

The Curvature: Hobo’s Island

Hobos’ Island is surrounded

By shallow rapids, water on stones,

Its murmuring constant, dulcet.

I jumped off the train into woods

Banked a hundred feet above,

Onto a grass flat worn bare

By countless boots like mine,

Mud-caked, broken strings

Square-knotted, but no holes.

The climb down to the river

Was treacherous, muddy slick,

From constant spring rain,

But safe enough as I grabbed

Willow and poplar trunks.

When I stepped into the river, 

My feet felt cold and clean.

At first I saw three campfires,

Which went out as I portaged

My light, half-empty backpack.

I heard shouting and curses

And guns fired, I hoped,

Into the clear darkening sky.

Men crashed through trees

And ran through the rapids.

I laid down in cold shock,

Began to float downstream, hearing

Shouts rising through the woods

I’d just before descended.

I knew that was no way back.

Something bumped my shoulder —

A section of old picket fence.

I grabbed it, but didn’t climb

On until the fracas was well

Behind me. I lay on my back,

Not bothering to steer, just hungry,

The bread in my pack inedible.

The river deepened into silence.

A kind course, it stayed me from shore

As the banks curved right and left,

Like the creases in my palm.

I remembered there was a dam

Miles downriver, through town,

But I wouldn’t worry about 

What came next until it came.

 

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