The Willamette, a youthful river, slick and deep,
Reflecting neon signs that never sleep.
Tonight, it holds the bar light’s fractured gleam,
And pulls the current of a waking dream.

Two old dudes riffing guitar and a harmonica wail,
Notes twist like slipknot in a midnight gale.
The bass drum thumps a heartbeat on the floor,
While young and old lean in and still want more.

My father’s ghost sits quietly by my bar stool.
The music’s raw; it bends a different rule.
“Play louder,” someone shouts. The harp takes flight,
A sharp, blue ache cuts through the Oregon night.

Tomorrow’s dirt, tomorrow’s slow parade,
But here, the river’s dark, a relentless trade,
Of water heading north, of time undone,
It meets the banjo that howls against the sun.

That has long set. Grief, it finds a groove.
This barstool testament, this sound that moves.
Through bodies swaying, a half-remembered grace.
The blues don’t fix. They just hold sorrow’s place.

So let the band play on. Let my feelings swell.
Like that revivified, insistent swell.
Of the river meeting tide. The notes ascend.
My dad? He’s in the bend,
where all things end, and music mends.