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About Bridges

Grief takes form
it’s name is Spumoni
it looks like a nasturtium
it tastes like La Croix
It smells like fireworks
it feels like horse mane in my fist

The old man who used to live here
took such good care of these roses
his wife passed years ago

we try, he says

I saw him every morning
they never looked like much
but he sure loved them

I’ve walked under these
same cherry trees
from snow bough
to blossom to  fruit
and back again for years
their tight green pips
hit me on my way home

A dog that once pulled  
I now pull he is so weary
as a puppy he could only go so far
now he’s old and can only go so far
can’t catch for shit anymore

Remember when punks lived here?

I count every house
that I’ve been inside of
for blocks and blocks

I name the past three
businesses each business
has been for posterity

I say aloud what used to be
where what is now is 
and tally the pro/con silently

I want to have tiny placards
to mark the locations of my
personal historical moments
like Lewis and Clark have

You wonder why I miss you
it is because you make me unfold
like a crocus or a barn swallow
or a freshly baked pastry 

The bridge belongs to no one
yet everyone claims it as their own
the same river is different water every day
That’s the thing about bridges




Posted 07/03/17
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