tired and terrible,
the Manhattan Bridge
is aging and angry
like me
creaking with every car
that crosses its precipice.
my redemption is red
and rusty,
just like the nuts and bolts
of that saintly transverse,
which carries souls
which carry love.
New York City burns
and my body bleeds
down my belly
and into my boxer briefs,
memories leaking
down my pant legs.
I am a paper plate pilgrim,
listening to loud rock-n-roll in the kitchen
and I don't care how
you get from here to there,
not anymore.
I've crossed and burned many bridges
and dug many ditches,
burying beloveds beneath
because I have to keep going,
keep living, we all do.
cheers to many more Decembers,
because no one wants to die
in the middle of July.