My Bridge to Somewhere
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.
The My Bridge to Somewhere by Marge Fulton, unless otherwise expressly stated, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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“Writer’s block is real as a flat tire.”
What a great line, and all too true!