by D.E. Ritterbusch
I
Early evening between
two middle spans
an old Buick shifts to the outside lane
and stops—cars brake and swerve,
snake around that Riviera
rusted, dented, angled across the lane—
a man unbuckles
and slides out, moves to the rail,
leans over, looks to the water below
and lifts a leg over the rusted steel
as if mounting the Schwinn
he rode as a young boy.
He moves deftly to another rail,
straddles it for a moment
the way he crossed over a fence
taking a short cut home after school.
He steps to a further beam, then another
and stands with the sun behind him
balanced on his toes, rocking
back and forth the way he stood
on the diving board that first time
so many years ago, everything
practice for the present moment,
horns honking with encouragement behind him.
There is no question
left unanswered
no answer left unquestioned.
His splash is soundless.
The fading sun rides barely discernible circles,
plays them until they subside to nothing,
water flat and gray as the bridge.
II
But what if the questions
were all the wrong questions,
answers having nothing to do
with evening sun on the water;
what if all the essential parts,
or clues, or helpful household hints
were missing, what if he
overlooked everything—his wife’s
hair streaming across the pillow
that first morning after the birth
of their son, the pumpkinseed
he pulled from a lake
with a bamboo pole, airplanes
he drew in grade school
when the teacher wasn’t looking,
his Cub Scout uniform
covered with badges,
Monarch butterflies he caught
and released in his room: they flew
to the window, reaching for light.
III
What if his wife turned away
as he brushed the hair from her face,
if he felt the sharp barb in his mouth,
and grew up hating to fly;
what if uniforms made him angry,
and there was never enough light?
IV
What if we all got it wrong
crossing over the bridge
swerving and cursing,
honking our horns, raising
the middle finger in salute,
dropping a coin at the toll booth?
V
What if no one gets it right
and this is the way it’s supposed to be
every life lived in the dark,
every light, every mirrored reflection,
an illusion, liquid and elusive?
Even so, the sun warms our backs
in the middle of night,
in the middle of a bridge
whether we think it or not,
wind singing through the wire.
What if the car just stalled?
About the Author:
D.E. Ritterbusch is the author of seven poetry collections, the latest of which is entitled All the Wealth and Splendor. He is a retired Professor of English and was twice selected to be the Distinguished Visiting Professor in the Department of English & Fine Arts at the US Air Force Academy. His creative work is currently being archived in La Salle University’s Special Collections Department.