It wasn't some Indian that named this place,
more probably the guy who's statue in the square,
that I didn't stop to see, just photographed,
then passed on by to the next historic marker.

The Lighthouse hill might have looked an alp,
to the flat-river-flat-bottomed-boat traveler,
flat horizoned aberration jumping up from
future cornfields up and down
(as if a river has dual ups and dual downs)
the unlined water tarmac, slow-lane to the north.

Elephants. Not one did I see in neatly laid out streets,
All quaintly levee'd by the dry folk there.
No processed hay piles in the street from horses, cows,
or elephants remain, reminder of the name of General
Old-guy from the alp-climb time old.
Just trinkets sold to travelers from buses old and yellowed
from the schoolbooks carried to-and-fro'.
No.
No Indians as well.
Oh well, just Hannibal.
Twixt train and Twain,
Just Hannibal.

03/04/2009

Author's Note: In response to Davenport, et al. Passed through on the way. Same river, different house, different town.

Posted on 03/05/2009
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers