Our bridge of sighs
is a metal ramp with foot holds:
on one end, the wooden
dock, the green river, sweet with grasses.
On the other, a parking
lot, an industrial complex, a highway.
We traverse ours
every morning, the ring of boots
a gavel striking
another small pock in our bodies.
But every night
we reverse the journey as well,
stepping from oily asphalt
onto the ramp that sways a little
with our good weight. We step
through air, across water,
back into the quiet cells
where we live our nights, trying
for some kind of pardon
for the way we spend each day.