Congratulations By Tom Porter

My scurvy approximations that count

Human dealings on their barge and rafters,

Numbers not those watchful eyes and faces

Paddling mirth through for river boat shows.

The cat’s lip hangs not like a cudgel threat

But sweeps a sleepy bargeman’s striving task.

Then ropes allow, for two, met embankment

Their idle cove, so says a bullfrog’s moan.

In violet hazes, the steam links fondly

As though in its diffusion it relates:

“You latest spittle, enjoy your color;

And compact now you well become the sky.”

Gamblers heed nothing of this relation.

The last win or fall cause for celebration,

Eyes at blind tasks mark no undulation

That out there stacks upon our steady course.

2018