I thought your swagger made the bridge sway,
made the breeze blow. I was five years old
at the other end. Terrified, I made Mother wait.
Still, it was my favorite of the hundred ways.
I was five years old at the other end. I wanted time
to waste. I measured the distance you had to travel
with my fingers. I closed the gap with my thumb
and made a cradle of my hand. I was five
at the other end. I tried to sing the nursery
rhyme with a happy ending but slipped into admitting
the fall. When the breeze blew, I wished your body into
an arrow speeding toward me.
The breeze rocked the bridge to sleep. You swayed
like a feather.
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