snow   off our urban river

running gray

tugboats     at sway-back hours

crossing glances

cliffs       two tugs hang back   notched

to barges   awaiting

lift anchor       but for lights   no

one near   would

there       anchored from drift       awaiting

orders       to get

tugs the Hudson       to wrestle

northward       this

unhesitatingly lighted       against dire

weather       through crew-

hand winters       separate       against anterior

weather       below

bulkheads         who can decide         which

voices hold

second thought         among sailors

than         set tides

of all people? I wish   I could do

without   the attention.     The staff

something new   has thrown me off

my stride.   At my age,   a pinch

moments,   waiting   in a   waiting room.

Aren’t pauses rich?   Are

remedies   final,   or   one-off recourses

thorough   merely   in their asperity?

May I   not complain   so much,

into   ascendent caretakers,   shy   to greet

non-ambulatory patients   as little other