pushing time around
the river's mouth and eating
jambalaya, we headed back
to work on the riverwalk
talking of poetry and soul,
the voice of the human spirit,
and it was then, sizing up
all the boats moored at the slips
that we saw the floating
milk bottles, the water-logged trees,
the used rubbers, and then
the bloated rat floating
on his back, a buoyant blimp,
his feet rigid, delicate and
exquisitely chewed clean,
his shriveled tail limp
bobbing in the slow current.
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