There's people living in the neighboring barges
guilty of assorted compliments and charges.
Like the one-eyed cyclist who never wears any socks.
He covers his mouth with his hand when he talks.
His name is René. They say he's a Communist.
There's something about his demeanour that's ominous.
Gord with his card tricks escaped from the row.
His mouth is always in the shape of an O.
His brother is locked up and he awaits his release.
He talks about politics and hates the police.
Linda doesn't have long to live, probably.
She's Wiccan and used to read palms for a hobby.
She came to visit one night and just sat there,
and laughed the whole time, her clothes covered in cat hair.
Aubrey wears two watches at once and a bow tie.
He's missing a thumb and nobody knows why.
He's not the best ventriloquist in the world, but he wants to be.
He's an excellent dancer and smokes reefer constantly.
Big fat Nigel works as a florist.
He's openly gay and looks like a tourist.
He's very polite with a good sense of humour.
He's heir to a fortune, or at least that's the rumour.
Washed up and wounded, we are the recycled,
earthy, thirsty, sleazy and seaworthy.
At the foot of the trees, the tramps drink and they daydream.
They use the fountain to stay clean. They're not as bad as they may seem.
Each day they reenact the ritual of abandon.
They sit there and serenade people at random.
As the thought of a job and a bedroom refrigerates,
they drift on alcoholic wings in figure eights.
Wine and water, regarded as stupid weirdoes;
more wine and water, they feel like superheroes.
One once was a boxer whose ego remains bandaged.
He once took a beating that left him with brain damage.
One plays a horn and was born with a wooden leg
he plays on some days 'cause he feels that he shouldn't beg.
One worked in the factory before it closed down.
He's fine if there's plenty of wine to go around.
Sunken and drunken, frustrated and lonely,
these people don't die, they evaporate slowly.
No matter how desperate, no matter how lawless,
they rely on the river for some kind of solace.
It sings to them softly and lulls them to sleep heavily;
it's soothing and every bit heavenly.
Each morning before they get into the booze, as they say,
they usually give me the news of the day.
And if it were up to them to shout the decision -
"An aurora borealis and all men out of prison!"
Discuss this work in our Forum