Each morning I see the difference. More

and more joists and rivets and a river idling by.

A river that whispers in this drought and looks

skyward. Men that hoist metal with cranes;

huddled along train tracks, often leaning

on old tires. I cross the old one twice a day.

Grooves worn deep. Now, I am half asleep,

and vines creep beneath the rusty bones.

I have come to a dead stop.

Writer’s block is real as a flat tire.

But the way my wheels hum upon

the old bridge is assuring. And

I have a toolbox bulging with gadgets.

Men in yellow hard hats are ripping

and reaching the other side in

near darkness. Maybe I must burn

one bridge to begin another. Maybe

my arms can span the diminished waters.