Suspension

The traffic is a stalled, metallic spine

stretched out over the slow moving brown.

I’m tracing the rivets in a rusted line

while the girders hum and the cables groan down.

My coffee is cooling in the plastic tray,

shivering into circles from the engine’s thrum.

I look at the water and then look away

to where the skyline is toothless and numb.

A yellow work glove is caught in the mesh

of the safety fence, fingers curled tight.

It’s a hollowed-out hand with no heat or fresh flesh,

just dangling there in the dirty, noon light.