It’s a pretty good bridge.
No trolls. A bit of old looking brick.
It can carry the weight of cars
from one side of the train tracks to the other.
On sunny days people walk over it slowly
and ask each other What kind of tree is that?
There’s something comforting
learning that bridges have names.
I wonder if that means they have parents,
or someone by another title
to look out for them, waiting
as they stretch out
to the other side of town.
© Carl Burkitt 2021