ALWAYS IN THE SHADOW OF THE BRIDGE

Loneliness is a cantilever bridge.
Eating alone is a pontoon,
Unwanted must be the draw or the suspension.
Six weeks with a shrink
equals one quiet walk across
a connecting passage
with a wind ruffling the hair
and a river below
constantly flinging itself at some rocks.
Mornings, the insufficiency
is clogged with traffic.
Late night, there's just an occasional headlamp
to infiltrate the void.
From a distance, I can cry
light and shape and height.
Up close, my tears are rust and cold.
I've learned an unimpressive life
can still be one end of a bascule
with a grand or humble bridge
as the other.
Yes, bridge is also a game,
one of the paradoxes of the English language.
By myself, I just play solitaire.
Mostly I lose
and occasionally I'm the one I lose to.