The boatman’s boat bumps up against the dock—
he waits for his passengers to step in—
coins in hand, they look up, find the circling hawk.

But a job he winks, set to punch the clock.
All paths lead to the river’s mud and din.
The boatman’s boat bumps up against the dock.

How do you get this job, checking the rock
Shore of the living, recognizing kin—
Coins in hand, they look up, watch the circling hawk.

Dunno, his shoulders ripple, his keys knock.
He padlocks his barrels of rum and gin.
The boatman’s boat bumps up against the dock.

Crossing is wide; don’t plan to swim or walk.
Across the river the dog-god is thin.
Coins in hand, look up, land the circling hawk.

Someone’s always arriving in a travel frock.
Passengers, come a dime a quick dozen.
Coins in hand, look up, mind the circling hawk.
The boatman’s boat bumps up against the dock.