Wouldn’t it have been cuteish to walk the bridge
pedestrian track, steel-netted to grid up the 5:15 picture:
Harmonious juncture of tree’d hills and gray
mirrored water and peach-wine dipped clouds –
all glory, glory, hallelujah! A gift
All the while shrugging the chill,
early March bite (a willful forgetting);
And the waggish tails of car, bus, truck exhaust
swirling in too many directions.
With the afternoon exhale,
better to wisely walk in the flaccid artery too –
among casks of husks,
husks of risks, expired in the wrapper.
(The swinging seed somehow unrealized) –
And soon to murmur between hunched shoulders
some cold cuttings of French,
‘Un jour sublime,
Le Dieu supreme!’
But, passing, he does not even
over his shoulder.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Puja Mehta is a physician living in New Jersey and working in the Bronx. This is her first published poem.