Under the Bridge

a poem by Roger B Rueda

for Crissy Bex Lee, a poet friend and muse  

Clematis creeping underneath the bridge,
her eyes nearly popped out of her head
when you two first met, you having bloody
soft skin, an accoucheuse, perhaps, an eye
witness. Yes, you were as if an earthquake
causing great damage to the bridge, its
surface with a huge hole.

Then you cried yourself to sleep.
Over the bridge she looked down,
Touching your bald little head.

Now, you being conscious of yourself,
don’t ask her where you are from or who
you really are, she’ll always say
There, under the bridge.