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- Non-Erotic Poetry
- State Street Bridge
Poem Info
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He spoke of tobacco and old oak.
The ground was wet
and we whispered our names to the willows.
We spoke of the bridge
and those who loved beneath it.
I wrote a poem on a paper sack.
“Cottonwood,” he told me,
“that is the name they gave this town.”
Then the cold came.
We lit a careless fire
kindled by my poetry.
He sang a madrigal to the sky.
I wish they hadn’t taken the bridge away.
So we build our own
and we love beneath it.
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