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I ride
the river daily,
Slowly moving and congested.
Each ship
has a destination,
Anxious to be there,
But the river moves slowly,
Without concern, not caring.
The river
is now a parking lot,
Nothing moves,
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,
The captains sit in the traffic,
Helpless,
At the mercy of the river.
The cars
start to move
And the river becomes a highway.
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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