The Bridge
By Mark Lusardi
Sits the man against the pier
For another day, another year
And thinks of things now long since passed
And wonders, if like him will last, the bridge
With all its bustling crowds
Of truck and tram and funeral shrouds
Of wheel and foot and ironclad hoof
That beat upon his vaulted roof –
Or wonders, could it come to pass
Like a grain, within an hour glass
With little thought of honour owed
A last traveller; could one day – walk, that,
road?
And then with glory days forgotten
Bereft of purpose, foundations rotten
The bridge somehow in spite of all
Like him, could simply break, and, fall
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