"So in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the river,
and it did seem so good to be free again and all by ourselves on the big river,
and nobody to bother us." — Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Day camp at the Kingston Y,
a swarm of bodies are corralled in the gym,
dropped off by parents
who saw no other option.
Teen-age counselors, savoring their first taste
of adult power, are leading games designed to
burn off boredom.
The noon whistle blows.
Like Pavlov's hounds the children
bound to overstuffed backpacks,
Jack Horner fingers pulling out
yogurt, apples, all manner of peanut-freeness.
They fall silent, lining the perimeter, backs to the wall,
except for one —
a lanky-legged boy emerging from the pack
like an awkward waterspout,
pacing the gym in oblivious circles
clutching a book high in his right hand,
close to his nearsighted eyes.
All morning he's tolerated the games,
the pushing/shoving brashness,
the four walls hemming him in,
the over-eager counselors.
All morning he has hungered for Huck's voice.
For the moment, he is where a boy needs to be,
on the Mississippi
somewhere south of Kayro,
on a raft heading for the rapids.
About this Poem
Unpublished poem, used with the permission of the author.
