CFS

The canyon doesn't need goodbyes.
For you I leave these lines
about another place,
another insane love affair,
another reason turned to silt
meandering along,
carving a soul out
of its own.

Current

Nothing to do but pack and leave,
he looks around the canyon one last time,
makes ready to shove off.
She wants another cup, another cigarette,
the calls, bills, worries waiting at the takeout.
The river flows with or without them.
She's determined to drag it out
eyes down, silent in the dory
but its time to go.
She slides the oars into their locks
and strokes into the current.

Women

We talk about all kinds of stuff
in three weeks on the river,
wars shared, friends buried.
The conversation turns to women
from grammar school to grave
in terms nice girls might find revolting
but women who understand us,
women who don't hide behind
prissiness, propriety or political correctness,
who laugh and give
good as they get;
women who aren't confused
by all the latest trends,
secure in who they are,
regard as no big deal
considering the source.