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a poem by Ally Malinenko (1 of 3)
Mississippi
I wonder if coming up on
the Mississippi River will ever
get old.
If I won’t gawk with the same
slack-jawed stare
and feel that rumble in my own veins
trotting down Beale Street to the railing
made of weeds and rocks.
I wonder how many poems I can write about it
before it gets old.
Does everyone else understand? Everything that is
this country, all our beauty and ugliness
tumbles down that dirty river.
Our faith, our ferocity, our failure
slips over those banks.
But this is just Memphis, and I know
farther down where the water bends out of sight,
New Orleans is waiting like a nervous lover
fixing her hair and straightening out her dress
at the empty table of the Please-U-Café.
She checks her watch,
and I press down on the pedal
willing the car forward,
trying not to be late.
the Mississippi River will ever
get old.
If I won’t gawk with the same
slack-jawed stare
and feel that rumble in my own veins
trotting down Beale Street to the railing
made of weeds and rocks.
before it gets old.
Does everyone else understand? Everything that is
this country, all our beauty and ugliness
tumbles down that dirty river.
Our faith, our ferocity, our failure
slips over those banks.
farther down where the water bends out of sight,
New Orleans is waiting like a nervous lover
fixing her hair and straightening out her dress
at the empty table of the Please-U-Café.
She checks her watch,
and I press down on the pedal
willing the car forward,
trying not to be late.
© by Ally Malinenko
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #9 ~ May 2010
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