It staggers
like a scrawny drunk
from its hard living in the woods

to doze
in grime and uselessness
at our doorstep. But there was once a use.

Great brick urns
keep an ash of brick;
water mourns water. But there was

a use. Like the tramp, the mill,
the mill girl, a spinning jenny racket, fingers

and work, and work,
the river has earned its myth, its river-gold banner

over the rake of old dams as the waters loll
and regather and retreat quietly now into the forest

like a tomcat
in a Sunday hour
making itself long for the sun.

David Troupes has recently returned to his native Massachusetts after three years in the UK, during which time he acquired a master's degree and a wife. He has published poetry in many British and American journals. For more information, visit

Home      Register     About Us/Staff     Submit     Links     Contributors     Advertising     Archives     Blog     Donation     Contact Us