Post by Pseudomuse on Apr 12, 2005 17:13:44 GMT -8
The Boy and The Bridge
Each year when October gusts against the windowpane
The boy balances on the bridge
Alone
He is waiting for something to change but it never
does, the cycle just keeps repeating. But he doesn’t
Want to go home. Because home is where his mother drinks
and his father lies to save himself. Most of the time
they don’t care if he’s even there. And so each year
when fall breathes a new life into dead leaves
the boy balances on the bridge
contemplating one thought
Jump
He wonders if he did just impulsively jump if they’d
care, or care enough to look sad at a funeral
which wouldn’t even be black tie. And he
thinks along the lines of memoirs and what
he wants written on his hedge stone. He imagines
it will go like this –
Beloved Boy, if only he could fly
Fly
And that seems bitterly ironic because in dreams he
flies past the second star to the right and straight on till morning and pirates
are his only worry. And each
year the boy turns around, trudging back home,
but taking a little longer, not wanting to leave
the relative quiet of the road. Home is always too loud,
yelling and screaming all the time. The boy wonders were
they ever happy, because that would mean something.
But he knows he’ll come back, back to the bridge.
It’s ritual now. Sort of like the meaning of life that way.
Although the movements are all mechanic.
And years later he’ll have to remind himself why he came to
the bridge in the first place.
