Dan Reynolds (Justiceville)
Two views from the Erskine Bridge.
When I was twelve…
I know not where my spittle went
when I spat off the Erskine Bridge.
I watched it dance, trapeze and see-saw
Ever-diminishing on its descent
Like the dot on the old valve TVs.
Those first elasticated exaggerations
Like a spinning chest-expander
Threatening to separate
Then leaving my focus
on its windy way to Old Kilpatrick’s pavements.
When I was 49
Oh my what wondrous spans of steel
These man-made structures
fill me with dread.
My gaze interrupted,
my hand raised to feel
where some little bastard
has spat on my head.
Comments about this poem (Two views from the Erskine Bridge. by Dan Reynolds )
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