Picture yourself in a land where time stands still
Where the high clouds drift across the sky in the noonday sun
People melting in the quiet shady corners
Of the avid bars that dot the landscape
Like the pilgrims who never made the trip
Lying on the seedy side of mainstreet
Amidst the rubble and the booze

I remember when the liquor was a sacrament
Of accidental youth
Lustrous and golden
Gleaming in callow stupidity
But alive and emotional
Like the poetry
And the songs
And the fights
And the noise
And the love
And the pain

Ah, but now it's old souls in dusty stations
Dirty hands and bleary eyes
Waiting for regeneration
With tickets in hand
They bob and weave across the noonday shuffle
On stilted legs of erroneous proportions
Meandering through the stream of humanity
Like weird herons digesting fish
Among the reeds along the river

Heratio, alas I knew him well
But not when he was young
He lived to count the lines upon his own face
But not the ones he loved
Marked his time
In the shopping carts
And the unusual abodes along the river
Singing his songs in quiet despair
Sitting in the noonday sun
With no wine to quench his thirst

Aturio's house is filled with the rhythms of the trains
As they roll by his little cottage on no particular schedule
The aromas of coffee, burnt toast, garbage, and cigarette smoke
Assail the nostrils as he packs his lunch and feeds his parakeet
Lurching out the front door
With cap in hand
Ready to do battle
For minimum wages
And maximum discomfort
In one of the factories
On the outskirts of town

Punching clocks that seem to run backwards
They work like lethargic humming birds
Long days
Limited nectar
But no vacation in Brazil
Just an occasional Sunday
Along the river bank

Margot's favourite day is Saturday
Drinking at the Seahorse
Until her memory
And her money
Runs down the hourglass
Into the stained sink in the dirty washroom
By the cigarette machine at the end of the hall

On a good night she dances like she was twenty
With one of the denizens of the seedy side
Who still retains some command over their motor controls
On a bad night she dances alone
In the local drunk tank
With swollen eyes
And tear drops
On her cheeks
Her temples throbbing
Her tiny heart beating
Like the small brown thrushes along the river

In the small hours of the morning
The music is different
An occasional shout or a fight
A scream or a laugh
A random automobile or train
Provide sparing lead
Over the essential backbeat of the river
Keeping its time to the turn of the ocean tides
As a freighter swims upstream
Like some giant salmon
Come to spawn
In the quiet shady pools
Along the river