Morning Ride

Last Monday morning

On a rusting 10-speed

I rode along the cold St. Lawrence

Under an iron bridge built first for locomotives.

That drips now with drivers in 

Corollas and Fords moving along like

Dead corpuscles

Towards men with cufflinks

Who like to say “Seek creative solutions....

...lest problems become self-fulfilling prophecies”.

 

The grey Vietnamese man

With a bucket and rod, hoping to bring home a

Fifteen-pound carp 

To his daughter

Who adds cornstarch and rolls fish balls that

She places in a tray.

The passengers in the white liner watch him 

As they embark on the

Must-see spectacle of the changing leaves.

No, not over there

In the clump of sumac

Where the discarded men sleep

In shelters fashioned from ripped plastic.

 

After the apocalypse

I’ll share my bread with them

Made from cattail flour

Baked on their campfires.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

i've been reading around your poetry this morning...you take snap shots of the world, that are at the same time prophesy

[Raindrop]

You said a lot in just a few words. Another realistic and mind-opening piece. I enjoyed reading this.

[roarke]

a morning ride with Nostradamus.... nicely crafted images. for all those cufflink guys, seeking and doing are infinities apart. Nicely done.

[Buzz_Reynolds]

Fantastic job, I quite enjoyed this!

[Penlady]

Your writing has become beautiful. I don't know why but this poem becomes a vison of a cornucopia fashioned of newspaper, filled with fish and chips and held up as an offering. You've brought humanity to a table and offered up something for all.
Sumac is well the bouquet that shelters the discards, a painting you've sketched for my mind and one that has touched the heart.

[J. Snipes]

Yes indeed the picture is clear and real, a perfect description