Front Porch Review
A literary magazine for the young at heart and mind

Are we the last to winter with the dead,
marooned on this island?

Will the bus never dock
On the far shore of this boulevard?

Not so far from you, yet each return
Somehow in doubt, as though

A mythic vessel must be launched
Each day, great seas crossed.

From the thin warmth of doorways,
Women sing to windward,

Neon shadows frozen mid-stride,
Their wine thickened with false comfort.

Over the hard lake no stars
Emerge by which to navigate.

                     *

At last aboard the swaying hull, weary rows
Of oarsmen turn to me

Silent with hope in bright heat that blows
As though beaten by wings.

Turning from their eyes, I touch
Their shoulders with promise as I pass

And we lurch toward home at last,
A vessel of light and comradeship.

By David Hart

David Hart was born and raised, more or less, in Galesburg, Illinois, a small town and birthplace of another poet, Carl Sandberg, who was heartily detested by those locals who knew him. The main diversions in Galesburg were dating, beer and golf. David didn't play golf, but he did manage to read a couple of books before he left for college. He majored in English at Northwestern with the hope of being a writer ─ fame, women, wine and long hair ─ but decided he could make a better living at something less reputable. He attended Harvard Law School, practiced in Chicago for about thirty years, retired early, lost his hair, and is dependent upon his wife for support in his dotage.