The cityscape comes out of the fog
hunched and low.
It’s streets and signposts unsettled as we pass through town.
The Three J’s
The parking lots
The bridge so high it blocks the sun.
people and concrete slung low in the saddle
its storied buildings laden with linoleum halls
and wood and bells
elevators and floor stops.
I fall asleep on the carpet
while mother talks, father patient.
The carpet rough and cool.
The city, the car, the traffic
watching as sky and glass and concrete wave us along.
The clatter as we ride over the manhole covers.
I am light and delirious. My friend, the bridge
bids me welcome as home we go.
We pass by Bekins (sounds like Beeman’s Gum).
I roll over in the back.
The car goes whoosh down the road.
I am soon asleep.