Many years have past
but the river still flows
through my fingers.
In early August orange fish still fan
under the second bridge,
and on the river banks
the wind blows a hat off Kandinsky.
Meanwhile, back in town
people swarm the shops
and talk about the day when everything changed.
Sentimentality has never been an issue here.
Caught fish are kept on ice.
Hope is a kite with a flickering red and white tail.
And in the burnt patch deposited
by the latest upheaval,
men lean over deep black pools
and angle for strange fish.
Kostar writes: “After years of teaching, I am semi-retired and now spend most of my time reading and writing and playing music. I play the clarinet and sing for a gypsy/swing band called Delta Noir, and I have published short fiction and poems in U.S. 1, the Roosevelt Bulletin, Kelsey Review, Princeton Review, Askew Review, and others.”
