Poetry

When I sweat the big sweat
shudder, die and descend
to the Stygian shore
(which may look a lot like the Hudson,
only darker sliding)
I will quickly locate the ferry gate
and, after only a little wait
offer its famous boatman a poem
swearing it my only fare.

Then, I bet, he'll sniff 'what's this for'?
(having known every past form of coercion)
shake it out briefly, and moving his lips
begin to read, leaning on  his oar.

I further expect, as he reads, to see brightening
his tired eyes, and a smile
lighten his dour face;
that, finishing the now-damp poem,
he'll look me appraisingly up and down,
sigh, tip cap and say:

'All aboard, sir, there's a seat for you here--
Estimable shade, your table is waiting,
people are expecting you there,
on the other side.
No one said you'd be coming today--
How's the weather up there, anyway?
I do sincerely hope you'll enjoy your stay
with us, here, and find everything here to your liking'.