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