“Old Man River”
There are days when the Ohio River
is like the mythical lazy Old Man,
his face wrinkled with fallen leaves,
bearded with summer moss.
There are days his soul is stained
with rotting driftwood, snaking scum
and now and then a human lump,
a victim of his sudden rages.
But there are days, like today,
when I can almost hear Mark Twain
tell a story in his slow Missourian drawl,
and smell the smoke from his cigar,
and see Huck and Jim skimming by
on a runaway raft,
when I can almost hear a calliope blow
as we hurry to the shore to greet
the big white showboat, and the Old Man
looks up with benevolent approval.
By Lisa Lindsey
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Regis
Michael D.
Kathy J Parenteau
Thank you Lisa!