Bridge Troll
I saw him again at the underpass.
Just his silhouette.
A shadow in a
Crumpled,
Baggy shirt—
Hunched,
Shaking
A Styrofoam cup
Like a bell.
Seven thirty already—
The air
Humid,
Pavement like
Coals—
The bridge choked with
Exhaust—
A line of
Bored drivers
Clogging the
Intersection,
Eager to
Get on with the day.
They didn’t look up from their
Coffees and phones,
Didn’t think
How an overpass
Brings such little
Relief
From this year’s
Record-shattering
Heat.
Desperate souls
Seeking refuge
Under the bridge
Bake in summer’s kiln,
Glazed
Or not.
The light turned
Green
And it was
Too late—
Nothing to be done—
And in horror,
I thought,
Was it him?
His back crooked
From years
Bent over a tablet,
Brushing scales
Onto dragons—
Building tension into
Form and face,
Emotion and grace
Till he was scraped raw,
Whittled into
Text,
His art
Bleeding
Into bots
While
He turned
Sallow and
Gray.
Did I meet his shadow at the underpass?
Did I really just drive on by?
