It was winderous, even the bare branches a-shaking.
The Indian took out a chicken foot and scratched his neck with it.
There was some men working on a bridge and below one man’s job was to wait with a boat in case someone fell.
Spike said things go slant sometimes.
Man hands you a pocketknife with the blade closed you hand it back with the blade closed. Open, open.
The Mississippi saxophone runs on breath coming and going.
What light does on water is a manifestation.
Men working, they talk about dogs; they talk about their mamas.
A little boat is jostlesome.
Water under the bridge, my friend, that’s what a bridge is for.
The Indian said the old ways were overrated, nobody ever mentioned all the coughing.
Five dollars says I could survive a fall, rocks and all.
Who decides where a bridge needs to be?
The man with the boat’s job was to be on the job.
From the bridge the water looks spanglety.
One guy had a cross tattooed on his back. He just had to know it’s there.
Men working on a bridge don’t cross it.
When you go, what you leave goes with you.
Copyright © Michael Chitwood
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.