The Span

The old concrete bridge, a long, grey thought,

connecting nothing to something else.

I drove it, a lesson I'd been taught,

watching the streetlights turn to gels

in the black river below, moving fast.

The hum of tires, a steady drone,

wind pushing against the gritty rail.

Just concrete and steel, a world alone,

a place where all old feelings trail

behind you, on the way.

What is it about a bridge?

That makes you think of what you've left,

or where you're going, on the edge

of something, feeling so bereft

of solid ground, just air and dark.

Just this long, endless, lonely arc.