Leaving the Bridge

Leaving the Bridge

Fred Johnson

The empty bridge at midnight
is too much, the children drop

water balloons and bricks,
some balls of wire, these land
like gangbusters, trepanning

roofs, the town fathers build a fence,
they curve the fence overhead,
a nightmare tunnel, back and forth,

back and back, and you’re nerved up
for an ambush in the middle—

as if you would leap the barrier
on a whim, with so much traffic,

with so much traffic—

but earlier than dawn
the bridge is abandoned,

the bridge is abandoned,
you might leap,

you might drop heavy trash
to the homes below, you might see

a magpie thinking it will leap, its friend
flies past all the eyes, its friends fly past
all the eyes, its friends, and you’re forgetting,

but, no, there’s ten,
you can never, they leave

all together.

---

Fred Johnson
Teacher & Writer

Fred’s writing has appeared in North American Review, Sugar House Review, Relief, and The Curator. He grew up in the Midwest and now teaches courses on literature, writing, and film in Spokane, Washington. He misses the thunderstorms, for one thing.

Photography by Colin Lloyd