What Holds Us Up

I took the shortcut under the overpass

and looked up instead of looking forward.

The concrete was ribbed like ribs, like something

had been stripped down to its infrastructure,

and the water stains mapped across it

like veins that didn't quite connect,

like a network of damage and time.

My footsteps echoed back at me,

and I realized I was alone down here,

under the weight of the city, under

all those cars passing overhead

that didn't know I existed.

The stains looked deliberate, like someone

had planned to mark this concrete this way,

like water had been given instructions

to show me exactly how things fall apart

when they're holding something up.

I kept walking. The echo followed.

My own sound, returned to me

like a reminder that I was still here,

still moving, still under something

that could collapse, probably wouldn't,

but could.