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.
John Grey's latest book is What Else Is There from Main Street Rag. His work has been published recently in Agni, Hubbub, South Carolina Review and The Journal Of The American Medical Association.
