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Underneath the Cook Street Bridge
by Carolyn CovilleThis has been my favorite spot for years,
a popular hangout which turned into a personal refuge,
the place I go to when I need to run away,
underneath the Cook Street Bridge.
I crouch along the edge of my low-hovering shelter,
I inch my way across, grasping the ground for support,
Stopping at the end, I sit, letting my legs dangle over the lazy river.
I light my cigarette inhaling the needed nicotine.
I slowly exhale some of the pain away.
In my father's eyes, I can do nothing right.
"Good-for-nothing," "You can't have anything when you have kids."
Inhale. Loooong exhale.
I stare at the wall across from me,
sprayed with words tagged by friends -
who are nothing in my life now but memories.
Inhale. Exhale.
Speaking of "friends"
When I'm away at school, I'm the forgotten one
I return to the dorm to "no new messages" on my voicemail,
my email also remains empty besides the inevitable spam mail.
Minutes pass. The soft, spring breeze dances across my skin.
Ashes swirl away and melt in the water.
The sound of crickets chirping echoes through my mind.
With a sigh, I rise to my feet, crushing the dying embers of my cigarette.
My soul calmed, it is now a good time to leave.
However, I know I'll be returning soon... 04/11/2003 Posted on 02/14/2013
Copyright © 2024 Carolyn Coville
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 02/14/13 at 01:07 PM I believe we all have that place we go to inorder to recover from the reality we see around us. We need to come up with an excuse to keep on going. This is a lovely write and rings true from the heart. |
| Posted by Ken Harnisch on 02/14/13 at 09:18 PM My place was beyond a billboard overlooking LaGuardia Airport in Queens, where I'm sure future heartaches and the poems they spawned were first born. An excellent evocation, Carolyn, and an intimate view into a gentle heart. |
| Posted by Johnny Crimson on 02/25/13 at 12:34 PM beautifully alone. |
| Posted by Uriel Tovar on 03/08/13 at 05:21 AM def like this |
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