A ship is drifting up the river,
through the February rain, all the way from Hamburg

bringing work. A huddle of discouraged men
waits by the docks. Beside them, two white horses,

wanting to be put to use, soaked
from croup to withers. The men are fidgeting, 

hands reaching through the rain-flecked air
for a barrel of orange flames. 

I think I see my father—his hazel eyes
are searching through gray sheets of rain.

If I would speak and he would listen,
I’d tell him he was not to blame,

in this wide world, for anything.
If I would speak and he would listen.


first published in Tupelo Quarterly