The Man Who Never Said Much

Trying to say something with his hands, he hit a mirror.

It didn’t get much better on the way to the river.

Fumbling for the heat vent, he got the radio’s hellfire preacher.

From the shore where night fishermen belched and threw

beer cans at catfish that wouldn’t bite, he watched a ferry

light up models of Jamestown’s ships.

What had John Smith said to Pocahontas when they first met?

Something about weeks of salty food and Atlantic storms?

Suddenly cars revved their engines, an iron deck

creaked against the pier, a man shouted Holy Jesus . . .

He fidgeted like the river twisting on its spine,

talked about everything except the food and weather.