Across the river
a span of rubble,
a row of cement piers
staggering to keep their feet
beneath the twisted iron
with broken will.

The art of lattice work
fallen with the tower
into the river, a water
weary of the refuse
from a dying town.
The bridge has fallen.

Just one more broken connection,
no animosity intended.
It was a job, a paying one.
Plant the charges, light the fuse
then run… Run… away
from the humiliation.

The river, sleepless,
ever winding, perhaps dreaming
of the sea.  Along its banks
Chokeberry and Hawthorn
are beginning to bloom
as the barges lumber past.

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