Ghost Ship Of The Mississippi

The Admiral, a beat up, tin woodsman of a ship
Stares from its moorings in the Mississippi,
A catch-all for whatever detritus the River brings
Downstream from its basin:
Trash, trees, tires,
Even bodies now and then,
Snagging on the port side
For people in the Lumiere Casino to view
Until washed away by higher waters of the spring,
It’s robotic, dented appearance looks like something
Out of the movie,The Day The Earth Stood Still,
Wanting to chant the “Klaatu Barada Nikto” mantra
To those who enter into its bowels to shoot craps,
It’s tragic view of South St. Louis
Is framed in the pinkness of the
Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial Bridge
That connects Historic St. Louis
To a swamp of blackness on the other side,
A swamp where hideous stories
Of incarcerations, mayhem, and murder dwell,
The Admiral has no view of the Silver Arch,
The Gateway to America,
A turnstile of advancing pink-skinned people
With a one-way ticket
To the Western Frontier of Freedom
For a chosen few whose destiny
Was written on the manifest
Of slave ships from Liberia,
The Admiral, with its cargo of river boat gamblers
Cries out for the bridge to be painted black
To rid itself of its pink supremacy,
To become what it truly is,
A link between the black and white of America,
To release it from the chains of the river,
To cut it adrift into the ice floes of history
Until it sinks like a paddle wheeler run aground
Abandoning its cargo and passengers on Route 66
While America turns a whiter shade of pale.