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I ride the river
daily,
a slow moving and congested stream.
Every ship on that
river has a destination,
each anxious to be there,
but the river moves slowly,
without concern,
not caring.
And the river
becomes a parking lot,
nothing moving,
and the ships wait and wait and wait.
The captains listen
to their radios,
talk on their cell phones,
tap anxiously on their steering wheels,
but nothing moves, or barely.
Their offices wait
for them;
their secretaries wait for them,
but the captains sit in traffic,
helpless,
and at the mercy of the river.
Finally the ships
start to move,
and the river becomes a highway once again.
Traffic speeds
by,
appointments are kept,
and life is back on track.
Tomorrow I will ride
that river again.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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