most nights he slept
in the silent space
between freights
that rolled overhead
like a storm
rocking concrete pillars
planted along
hidden fault lines
under the eight-mile bridge
where gods spoke
through broken wine bottles
& drunken-tongued
stumble bums
coughed up old tales
that colored the air
blue —
haunted faces
like hopeless ghosts
tallying old mistakes
under the eight-mile bridge
his mind was gone
when they brought him
back to the county home
where he lies under nights
too quiet
staring up
restless & confused
wondering what happened
to the thunder
under the eight-mile bridge
