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,
(gelatinous, unrooted):
‘Un jour sublime,
Le Dieu supreme!’

But, passing, he does not even

over his shoulder.



Puja Mehta is a physician living in New Jersey and working in the Bronx. This is her first published poem.



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