The River is Everywhere

Thomas Stearns Eliot, a natural poet, way before me, chose his words carefully,
“Only those who will risk going too far, can possibly find out how far one can go.”

I was born under a bridge, just feet from the Mississippi,
the ghosts of Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn and Mark Twain,
were my only friends, a river rat they called me, nevertheless,
I spent my time dreaming of wild Indians, Cowboys and
Explorers, while watching the walking dead, still fighting
wars in their heads,

Black activists and supremacists gathered around, their fists laden with
blades, still at large today…throwing dancing rocks off the shore, and
starting new fires few can not be put out, A rude but natural causeway
for barges, sole and soul-sitting, with the excitement of ducks feeding off
fish, with wild and unruly cats feeding off ducks, hunger advancing along
the dented shores,

Rivers are just like people, sometimes surging over rapids, speeding or
sometimes meandering, with children crying, wild dogs barking, frogs leaping,
with high voltage footprints on the bottom’s muddy river floor, spitting rocks
smooth and demure, only those who risk going out too far, will possibly find
out how far one can go.