Ode to the Pillars of the Overpass Bridge
By William Fargason
no bridge on them yet stuck holding
nothing midair across the six-lane interstate
stoic in concrete uniformness lag bolts
waiting for purpose in the silvered air
I pass them by in my car going nowhere
important the grocery store probably passing
underneath the air they hold up the light like
the yellow line on the road next to the rumble
strip holding small pockets of rain from last night
the air full of possibility knowing the future
in each thread of the column’s bolts spiraling
upwards towards heaven like spikes at the bottom
of a pit in a dark cave passage a trap
built to catch angels as they fall to earth