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Road work, Pont Jacques Cartier Spring began another season of patching all roads lead to her suicide bridge. Her friend whispered, she was deathly afraid of bridges detailed her every crossing in quaking, under borrowed blankets lying on back seats, forgetting she always lived on islands. As we crawled along, propped up signs screamed "TRAVAUX" "ROAD WORK" in irritating neon blinking orange, a mile before her bridge. She not noticing, proclaimed running had made her stronger built up an endurance, conditioned by changes in asphalt every time her foot fell, like her wooden leg was full of booze. She promised to bolt at crest of this bridge, march to the rail plunge to an ice burdened river below. She pitied farmers, dredging her blue bloated body to shore, weeping, with pruning hooks. She was a lot of babble, when she lied. --- At first, car traffic backed up as crews spray circled the April toss and go pot hole spots. Broken by another winter survived here she was unaware , carried on her conversation. Then, cross hatched milled road rubbed our ears wrong Single file cars merged left, squealing over May's laid snakes of tar and feathered sealant, rolled flat into spider web cracks. At the crest, patch flew about inside wheel wells of our car tossing the first stone, pinging into the undercarriage. She realized, now, the world would end, in disintegration. bit by bit, spinning apart off centre, in surround sound stereo. June was catatonic and silent smooth. We all descended into that nothingness. Freed by oblivion into an amorphous darkness of a newly paved open road. Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem |
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