The bridge is shakey,
broken here and there,
not quite straight,
each section tied to each other
by frayed ropes and rusty hinges,
just inches above the water.
Walk on it and you lurch
from side to side,
grabbing the ropes that serve as handles
to remain upright and dry.
From a distance, it is a scary thing,
and you might wonder if there are other ways
generations have walked this bridge,
for all it’s flaws and frayed connections,
for all the fear it engenders,
somehow finding their way
to the other side.
About this poem
About the bridge in the picture, which was taken at the nature preserve in nearby Hebron, NY. About Democracy.