New York Pitch Conference Reviews, Algonkian Writer Conferences, and Poetry Forums

Again I cycle the Dock Road as alarm rattles in its tin;
despair - at the early call longing to stay in the warm,

to dress hurriedly in the cold the house, asleep
in the early morn. A blue black sky on the shiny road,

I peddle past the workman's hospital, men dying to
end their journey when mine starts now.

Pedal Past the weir and the sewer outfall, a mist
hangs over the river and its turgid mud banks.

A tug boat blasts its raucous cry from the lock
expecting a ship - to push and batter into position.

Circle the chandler,s hut, an old name for candle seller,
crunch over the cinders of the works and clock in.

The road leads around the world: Tilbury on the Thames,
Bay of Biscay, Gibraltar and its rock and Barbary Apes,
Piraeus the Port of Athens and its despot lanes, Suez
with its smell, the Canal among the dunes, we pass Mecca
to the larboard without a glance, stop off at Aden to buy
a Super 8 cine camera for ten pound, the long haul to
Bombay,then a stopover at Colombo in Ceylon, Perth
in Western Australia, in five weeks we reach Sydney
my journey end.