Last Frontier
Franklin Street skitters, unpaved,down past doorways,mostly of saloons. It angles off the business district down to piers and landings.. Then disappears later on the inlet. In mud flats, stretches no one can travel.Every bar has its moonglow; some are strictly Indian, others White. Northern Lights, Red Dog, The Arctic Tap. In November, the freezing rain splashes outside. Rain, all the time. Juneau was built on the wrong side of a mountain range. Hard by the sea, 30 miles of roads connect Juneau. But they’re going nowhere. You need to take a ferry to the Alcan Highway to leave. When you’re ready to leave, that is. Everyday I took my aimless hikes. By tumbledown shacks to the outskirts of town. Alone, I passed by Indians. They nodded, or glared. No one here feels morose about rainfall. Because by late September, it’ll all be snowflakes. At times, hail in big…
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Poetry in Motion 