10 July 2016
Like funhouse mirrors,
the doors of shiny sedans
reflect, grotesquely, the passing rowers
carrying their shells
across the parking lot
toward the dock. Then,
just beyond the reach of reflection,
the rowers begin to stand tall,
erect, ripped athletes,
seeking communion
with the river.
Philip Kuepper
(22 April 2016)
Tagged: Philip Kuepper, Rowing Poetry
