in my youth it was considered a testto crawl along the cement stained with bird shit
to get to the aqua ducts under the bridge
the higher you climbed the smaller the ledge
and a painted name could mean immortality
no one actually fell off the bridge
fear inspiring a knowledge of gravity
and fingers that could clamp like vices
we were eagles for the moment
and stupid in general
but i imagine young boys still try it
only two people have jumped or dove
one was old, a circus performer
who made it a ritual once a year
i happened to be driving by one day
and saw the old man with baggy shorts
and the body of a bear
standing on the ledge and ignoring
the ambulance drivers and onlookers
who had gathered to dissuade his passion
his hands were shaking in anticipation
and when he jumped
the arc of his perfect back flip
became part of my permanent memory
his entry was flawless
and i watched as the current
pushed his ancient body down river
one arm over the other he casually swam
once reaching the shore he did not turn to bow
but instead slowly walked out of the picture
the only other jumper i know of
was a young man named jeff mcinroy
and he dove off to the celebration
of a picture on the front page
it was a time when it wasn't considered rebellious
but instead brave and admirable
jeff was blond and handsome
and his wide swan dive had magic in it
the bridge remains my home town
like most other things in our lives
full of memory but mostly just time
it takes people from one point to another
and sometimes brings them back
Copyright© michael dennis/Pulp Press Book Publishers