When sunshine hits the broken glass just right, the ground looks like a carpet of emeralds and diamonds. That’s how everything is beneath the bridge.
The people walking up top have no idea. They toss trash over the side, oblivious to the fact that that same trash turns to art the moment after it leaves their hands.
Half-buried in dirt there’s a rusted tricycle all twisted around itself like a surrealist sculpture of childhood.
An old washing machine full of dirt sprouts wildflowers in spring so that it looks like a hippie hedgehog is huddled within the metal husk.
Down past the way over there, there’s a trench got worn out by drainage runoff. In spring it floods, and the frogs lay big gelatinous clusters of eggs, and you can stand beside it and look at yourself reflected in a sea of eyeballs.
All of this is mine.
The only friend I’ve got and the only friend I need is a three-legged deer that meanders around here. I think he lost his leg to the train and now is too slow to cross the highway and too hobbled to get over the fence on the other side.
He’s sandwiched in this little wooded corridor with me, and that’s just fine. I think he likes it, too.
There’s treasures down here that no one else will ever know, up in their world on top of the bridge. They’ll never see what things can be when you’re cut loose from the regular world.
They keep throwing us away, and we keep becoming works of art.
Not in spite of them, no — because of them, and that’s just fine by me, too.
Copyright 2018 Jeff Suwak