By Diane Webster
--
I want to be an old wooden bridge
with slats missing, broken in dangling
pairs in mid-air dive suspension.
I want to creak or crack warnings
that never materialize
or maybe they might.
Creaks and cracks tickle my joy.
I might sacrifice a slat
to test a hiker’s reactions.
Oh, crap! They hung on.
Whoo hoo! You’re gone.
Bye, bye. It’s never my fault.
I’m an old wooden bridge;
I can do what I want!
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