Washington Ave. Bridge

The 16 bus saunters through the West Bank, 

its wheels picking up the remnants of last night’s snowfall.

As it approaches the bridge time becomes suspended

and the riders are allowed a reprieve from their days – 

the only calm in their commute.

Black hoodies and gray winter hats push up against the window.

There isn’t a face on the bus that hasn’t forced its gaze 

through the soiled snow-spattered glass to look down at the river – 

still and foreign to the commotion above. 

Disappointment, weariness and anger are pushed at the river, longing for solace in return.

Through a large break in the ice it looks back, 

dark and resolute, 

and refuses these offerings.

As the bus comes to the end of the bridge, the riders turn back to face front, 

accepting their burdens and drifting back into their day. 

Anger

…is easier than sadness.

It empowers and gives focus.

It gives strength.

A false strength behind which the pain hides

and is all too eager to show its face when the strength

to be angry runs out.

Then all that is left is a weakness,

a powerlessness.

A body overcome by a thing

not easily shed.

Anger might give power. But in the face of sadness,

of pain, all power is lost.

Anger is fleeting, while sadness remains, heavy and wet,

a force all its own.