Poetry Pick

Under the Bridge

by Jack Livesley


As twilight darkens to dusk he sits
huddled in the fall-cooling breeze near
the old iron stove under the bridge, the one
          he once sketched in his grade six art class.

Only a few of the regulars have shuffled in
yet more will arrive later bringing their
whispers, whimpers and cries to solo or
          harmonize with late night winds.

His drawing of the bridge taped
to the fridge door by his father on one of
his sober afternoons, saying,
          How are your others?

The "others" meant the maths and spelling,
the art and stories the boy loved were okay.
But wadda ya gonna do later? Be?
          Be? He was ten.

He wanted to answer, Happy.
And he was. Not so dad, who was
a widowed boozer with one son
          he didn't really see.

Now, thirty years on, the son crouches
in the dripping shadows with those
who have folded and stapled their dreams
          into the shattered corners of their lives.

He flips open his sketchbook and
with his pen begins to open his box of wonder
and become what he wants to be,
          Himself.

From Celebrating Poets Over 70 (McMaster Centre
for Gerontological Studies, 2010)


 

Index Previous Pick