the bridge to new orleans
you have to pass the desolation
before you get there
long, long bridges
overlooking swamps, decaying trees
occasionally a home
foundation crumbling
wet wood peeling away
what do those people see
the people in those homes
crocodiles, snakes
bugs along the water
a ripple of the murky
water under the full moon
the vultures perched
along the treetops
they have the isolation
the beauty of the solitude
but it’s a different kind of
decay they see
a different kind of decay
a different kind