The Sleuce Into Rubicon Springs Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

She remembered well from the night before
how he rowed, all upstream, lacking paddle and oar,
further slowing occurred through eruptions of batter
what remained stayed to dry as particulate matter.
Though no trace would be seen by the unaided eye
just a whiff of its soul, to the swordfish a fly,
it will cling to the pores and with patience await
the great gush of Good Day as it crowds through the gate,
with production increasing due to androgens' might
there are portals so keen they will swallow the night,
to the end of the sleuce is the way of the ship
as small breakers of foam slowly drip from her lip.