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Driving Through a Bridge MAG
The bus rolls along under a bridge, and I
remember tumbling down the slide in the
neighborhood playground. Rusted green,
the bright
plastic slide curved and dipped precariously.
It had a covering on top, blocking out the
sun. I would cry as my body was
jostled from side to side. I was as far in
as I was out, in these shadowy
tunnels.
The arches of the bridge blot out any
light, as the bus tumbles over the asphalt.
Like ants we crawl
between sharp blades of grass,
the sun is but a pinprick in the sky.
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