Issue 158, Spring-Summer 2001
You separated my hometown from Kentucky
And south of us you deftly touched Indiana. Ohioans drove back over you
With lower-priced (untaxed) beer and bourbon in the trunks
Of their cars to take to Cincinnati and get drunk
Less expensively than with Ohio purchases. In my teenage years
I drove over you in the other direction—to Campbell County—
To gamble, to the Hotel Licking to look at the pretty young prostitutes, and drink six-point-seven-percent Hudepohl Beer.
Your heyday had come when I was ten. We were down in the basement
To see if you were there yet. You Hooded! You overflowed your banks!
Everything was wet
For miles around you. You were in the papers, trees stood in you up to their faces. Men rowed
Boats from one side of a street to another. Doctors
Ran around the city giving typhoid shots. I kept a scrap book