Non-Erotic PoetryState Street BridgeHe 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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