Two poems


The Little Miami River

is my father

filling his shirts

and slippers

with the applause

of pulses sipping

mudbank coffee

with the precision

of turnpike truckers

dabbling ducks

sliding his rook

down the tiled path

of black and white

whistling chess drunk

painting our canoe

camouflage in

the garage but first

wiping its dust

with a cheesecloth

tossing over the 80 oz.

popcorn bash-bags

like an angler

braving the summer

Southwestern Ohio

roller coaster

of typhoon peaks

and whirls only

to placate the heart

of his little girl

before silt-slow and

damned to age

or emptied tumbling

into the rapids

of dementia’s big

river mouth

while I am distracted

by the shimmer

and feather of hooks