Poetry of Issue #7        Page 16

UNDER THE BRIDGE

Under the bridge the homeless man lives --
a fairy tale troll imperiling all pedestrians
brave enough to cross in stroll manner.
I stand on one side wishing to beam over
in Star Trek style or at the very least
requisition a phaser, but this biscuit
must fulfill and pay my toll.

The old bridge flakes rust into the river,
and someone thought it a bright idea
to nail planks across the bridge’s floor,
like Oregon trail wagon ruts
in raised relief so if driving,
your car must follow in line
or veer off in bouncing holey hell
moment of plunging off the bridge,
splashing in the river, floating a second
before sinking, driving with the current,
then buried like a giant catfish in silt
awaiting a tidbit to drift past.

But I am on foot, and the troll listens
beneath the bridge for my shoe echo
on wooden planks, and I am afraid.
Afraid I will slip off the planks,
turn an ankle and lie in splinters
dreading who or what appears first.

So I run, I run sure footed, fast,
and on the other side I fling
the biscuit over the bridge’s edge
hoping the homeless man catches
and lets me pass on my return.

  Diane Webster