This is one of the Types of Poetry. A poem about The Bridge, outside "The Red Robin" - a little collage bar. Types of Poetry
The Bridge
by
Richard A. McCullough
Clutching up from the dark hole of my body the bridge yawns before me,
its steel jaws clenched against the dark suck of oil green water reflecting,
rippled with light of neon green blue and steel girders in brown shadows beneath me trembling
and the light of cities bent in lust locks beckons its red flecked fingers at me
and I wait there above the water, held in a mass of bulging steel, contemplating,
lost in the sheer bliss of conjecture, waiting,
while the wind whips supple fingers through my frame the river sucks teasing at my feet,
clad in feet of girders, clad in concrete, the silent suck beckoning, awaiting my decision
to cross and disappear into the cold green of street lights,
to walk as nights before clad in rain, waiting for something to happen,
or to stand here, slipping wind across my tongue, waiting,
or to leap there with hands outstretched to grasp that last instant, with cold light beckoning and chill fingers licking my bones, I surrender to the arms of space and rushed passing and quake there in mental attitude with a rush of air to fill my ears with screams of singing and I know this as I face the waters spread with shadows of steel brown and lights in neon reflection
that here, beneath the shadowed reflections, brown of shadows and smears of reflected light, I know
that I will find the clear light, the wicked bleached white light to drain my skull and make me free, to let me soar in totalness of being with the sun
or sink, merely sink, in groggy stupor to murky depths of pollution where fish swim and tin cans lay in rusting and a threadbare tire becomes my cushion until I should bloat
and rise to greet the dawn and hooked pole of a harbor policeman. Types of Poetry And both of these I rush to, breath sucked long ago from out my lungs, screams left to clutch the brown of shadowed iron
and again to these I plummet in terrible expectation.
Away, away forever, to be free, to join my maker and be free from his unkindly grasping, away in plummet blackness on-rushed through darkness,
away from the age of wicked uselessness clutching against her breast a grocery bag filled with nothing but her despair,
away, away from, away all of this,
and there beneath the cool green suck, waiting, divided from my discernment, the clear light to bleach my skull of all question, of all doubt
or a mere oval of slimy rubber through which a fish swims in clear polluted dejection.
