Tributaries Poem by Phillip Erb

If that was you standing in the fog
Out on the street's corner in the dark
Waving a monotonous hand at me
With the other thumb in the air
Picking up a stranger's ride
Away into the night
Then won't you send a postcard
Or something down to this rotten town
Where the mayor shrouds
The homeless sleeping on the ground
Around here we could sure use a sign
To let us know
That even though
We cannot go
There are some places
Where all these rivers
Eventually flow