Thursday, December 30, 2010

Under the Dunwoody Bridge by Essie McKiernan

Two years, Maria and Richard
have lived here two years, and all the small
domesticities are present: pile of books
beside their mattresses, damp pages
furling in the breeze; red suitcase on wheels;
sea of plastic bottles (water, soda, vodka);
a tin dumpster-cubby lined now
with snacks; four pillows, seven blankets,
one monster quilt; someone’s frayed stuffed animal;
two green lawn-chairs with torn webbing;
a notebook, three pens, tampons.

Little Tommy Tucker sings for his supper,
What shall we give him? Brown bread and butter.

Light never quite breaches shadow here,
and life beneath the bridge is so far below
the radar of believability
that my body sways a bit, trying to take it in.
20,000 wheels a day steer their way downtown;
in the camps below, the days continue
much like yesterday, invisible, unseen.

(an excerpt from Under the Dunwoody Bridge)
by Essie McKiernan