Ferry Service Terminal – Weehawken, NJ

Here, an overdose of pigeons –
brown and grey as a dime bag of scag –
they needle at french fries and trash
in a proximal race with rats
for bloat and blessed anesthesia. 

As do I, as do I.
I sit on a bench by the river,
mainline the romance of rusty barges,
the charmed smell of diesel and transmission fluid
In the wasteland of a ferry repair depot.

It is thusly Charon and I converse.
He, a charming industrial ghost –
part ferryman, part dilapidated
freight warehouse in tux and spats –
we veer into conversations on jazz and sports,

What 'Trane and Billy Holiday 
had to say as they crossed over,
their eyes and livers hardcore,
burned out Detroits of the soul –
the Babe too and Jesus

A chatterbox who wouldn't shut up
and didn't leave a tip.
I have no axe to grind with death,
but also no yellow bricks to lay end to end
then say goodbye – a road
paved for the caisson,

Its distant drummer's march. 
A cop drives by, shines his light.
At this late stage, it doesn't take a brainiac
to come in from the park.
I'm a junkie for the dark.

For Shay’s Word Garden

13 thoughts on “Ferry Service Terminal – Weehawken, NJ

  1. What a trip! I really love your description of Charon, that’s inspired, and all the celebrity riders. But what I liked the very best was Jesus not leaving a tip! I laughed so hard. I read a book called “Nickeled and Dimed” where the author posed as a number of different minimum wage workers, and one job was as a waitress. She said that the worst tippers were conspicuous Christians. I believe it.

    This is one of your best, qbit, and well worth waiting for.

    Liked by 2 people

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