by Fred Shaw

I am not the Brooklyn, nor the Golden Gate,                     but I can get you
there from here.               I am a forearm, ulna and radius, pulling you closer,

like a handshake or a hug.     My cement holds the sweat of labor, the curse words
of one foreman, a bubble of air trapped   among the aggregate of sand and stone,

a breath from another time and place. In the dark, I can hear the hiss of taggers
bombing the gray spaces below, leaving        their pastel fingerprints all over

what’s hard and blank beside the rails and ties.  My steel girders and seams allow
the rolling whisper of tires.         I never tire of those bass lines rumbling

Be on the lookout for the next stanza in October!
Updated September 20, 2021