Bridge

I walked over a rusted bridge today spanning a river and railroad track. If it could shudder to life I wonder the stories it could tell.

It could tell tales of the civil war, of union bosses, of strikes and sabotage. It could speak of train wrecks and suicides. It could also tell the tales of young lovers escaping for a moment, friendships forged, and love rekindled.

It’s rusted beams may be covered with spray paint and etchings left by revolting taggers. The markings “Jenny loves Johnny”, “fuck you”, and “Bill-O Was Here” meant as a rebellious and passionate act for eternity. But the bridge cares not. It knows that these will fade in time, as all others before it has, into the past, known for just an instant.