Belle of Louisville


I lean over the rail,

watch the red paddle wheel

stir water to a froth,


throwing mist and October air

blown down from Indiana

into my face.


Sometimes steam blinds me

and smells of old pipes,

like a laundry.


On deck number two

they’re playing rag time

and I think of New Orleans


how I’ve never been there

and of the Titanic which

had no steam but a grand staircase,


then of a book I read

about a steam boat captain

and his red head bride.


I live there

in ball room dance days

and Mark Twain memories


until a student asked,

“Teacher, you got a quarter?”

2 thoughts on “Belle of Louisville

  1. Connetta,

    Thank you so much. You are kind, coming from you, a wonderfully gifted poet and artist [your photography is outstanding] your words mean so much.


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