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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