April 19: Bridge
Every morning, my boy walks
over the bridge to school.
He vanishes around the corner,
meets his friend,
then becomes visible again,
crossing the bridge.
They pace their way up the arc
then looking around.
Feeling the weight on shoulders
and arms and backs
of their age and education.
Buttoned into uniform state,
black pant legs flap, stiff collars straight.
I hold my breath, remember where I stood.
It’s hard to be a kid, going on adulthood.
To dress the part and learn the lines
after screwing up a thousand times.
To cross those bridges, plant your feet on the other side.