Prisoner of time, white-
suited transient gone to
Territories of his own making,
Twain sleeps in medias res.
Huck, however, lives on.
Slipped free of plots
and conflict, caught between
boy and manhood, wandering
where innocence wobbles
like an August horizon.
Hanging off the raft, his feet
point like pale rudders, river-
rinsed, ten toes compassed west.
Downriver he’ll land and light out
for Territories once more, trusting
indigence and wariness to shield
him from grifters slick as catfish.
See the blue tendrils of pipe
smoke floating into lazy sky?
The ones sniffing out freedom
and falling stars? That’s Huck,
all right. All the unwritten parts.