The first orange and red glow is apparent on the high clouds
It will be a fine blue and white day.
The patio chairs are arranged in the precise center of the bridge
the cheap aluminum ones with plastic webbing
It seems an amphitheater to the eastside sun
But they are not there for the view
just a resting place,
an enticement.
I know they will come,
those farmers and travelers who traversed this fine bridge,
back before combustion engines that dodge my chairs.
Not that I’m so foolish as to think we can return to those days
And why stop there if we could?
Why not go back to the time when all our lives would have been human interaction
one on one,
mano y mano,
and nature spiritual mystery?
I suspect they will come from the South.
Though truth be told,
travel went across the bridge
To and fro the train station
tracks to other visions
Not as much from farmers and market folks
going to the perfect little village
on the other side.
So it would be unwise to expect those from the North
To cross the mighty river
And leave their tiny city
Toward a ghost they’ve never seen.
I know they will come
But what if they don’t?
Should it be assumed they’ve all died?
Or maybe they can’t see the chairs?
so carefully arranged
an enticing resting spot
Or worse maybe they don’t care?
Maybe their lives are worn
so thin that they don’t mean anything,
like a toddler’s blanket to a teenager
or so they presume in solitude.
Or maybe they don’t remember the bridge?
its society and “Howdy, How ya doin’!”?
I hope they come today
because tomorrow......
the bridge will be no more.