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,

Be on the lookout for the next stanza in August!
Updated July 13, 2021