*Note: Originally published in 2018's Live Mag! Magazine. 

On the 12th night, we shuffle

under the rotations of a disco ball,

old Halloween decorations,

balloons bobbing on the ceiling

to remind us that the year is only

six days old. I barely survived

the holidays, but the city can be

unforgiving to introverts, pushing us

out of our brick covered shells because

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This poem has its origins long ago in a jaunt on the Mississippi river on board the paddle-steamer SS Natchez.

Dream River

As water-light dances through cabin blinds

in scintillant counterpoint to her chattering bow,

a brooding threnody of whistles fills up the big boat's horizon-lines;

the mate checks the bearing of her painted prow.

Well-worn warrior of river life, paddles slap...

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