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Tuesday, September 22, 2009

bridges

I look down from the bridge & see how shallow the water is.
Diluted chocolate, flowing southward, to the sea.

That was a Sunday over a year ago.
I went for a walk because I didn’t want to think.
I sat in a blackened river park & watched shadows go by.
The city, the lights on in the buildings, twinkling snowflakes.
I got up to go home but couldn’t move.
I remembered the people who lived under the bridge.
They all had blue tarps & were always cooking.
Smoke from their camps rose up to where I was looking down.
I made my way down the bridge & toward home.
Cars went by me like cattle being driven, somewhere.
All I needed were raindrops, cause I like walking home in the rain.
I walked through a park where two men were arguing.
Old, long beards, dirty clothes. One had a bicycle & went away.
The other sat on a bench, making little clouds, suckling a can.
I got back onto pavement & worked my way home.
And then fell onto my futon.

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