The Bridge
By Trent Thiele
I used to hang my legs down
from the bridge that runs over
the river, in the town where
I grew up.
Leaves crinkled as they piled at
the base of the steel supports.
I watched from above as some boys
from school fought downstream.
One pushed another into the water,
holding him under. I imagined that he
was saying hello to all the little fish that
swam past his head, giving him tiny
fish kisses.
Homecoming
Beer in hand, I sat in the place I had
twenty years ago. Rust painted my
hand as I settled uncomfortably on the
bridge.
Memories of Dan’s drowning drizzled
over me, like raindrops on a tin roof. I
sat in silence, sipping cheap beer. As
I stared down into the can, I saw bubbles
coming to the surface, just like
the bubbles from that day. If I
just wait long enough,
they go away. Struggling, then
stillness.
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