5030. MAID OF THE MIST, IN MALE SONG TIME

MAID OF THE MIST,

IN MALE SONG TIME

There were old songs and rhymes I was told when

I was young that all turned out to be lies. Nothing

seemed ever true, and every tall tree fell down. I

learned soon enough life was riddles. My grandmother's

kerchief always fell to her knees while my father was

doing her nails  -  toes and fingers, grown hard and

brittle with age. I never understood any of that  -  nor

why men worshipped old Gods and then believe in

new time. The light on the horizon always rose up

with a roar  -  bellowing, gesticulating, running off.

Like cattle in a stampede, my mind took ideas and

churned them, broke them, erected Niagara Falls

and Paterson Falls together, rolling down and

over every last thing. Maid of the Mist was I.