Suspension

I stopped to double-knot my lace

right where the expansion joint gapes open.

The river is a gray muscle moving way down there,

but the sidewalk is what’s shaking.

It’s not the wind. It’s the semi-trucks

carrying crates of produce to the coast,

grinding the span into a slow fever.

A rusted hook of rebar

pokes through the concrete like a broken rib,

calcified and sharp.

Against the chain-link, a work glove

is stiff with salt and sun.

It’s been waving for months

at drivers who only care about the exit.

The whole thing is humming a low,

terrifying note under my boots.