Thursday, January 12, 2011 — While we do not wish to trigger a flood of poetry submissions, we could not resist this.
seem often to be occasions of assemblies prefacing disassembly,
as of the tired, too late loved bridge,
a spare, utilitarian grace soon to be substituted
for the gentle arches and tapered towers.
and paws that daily trod, and some that never did,
the grated walkway that borders the venerable spans, will later.
But now, as dawns the day before the gates are closed
and the work of the cutting torches begins,
whose perfect nickel shape will tonight, from its zenith, illuminate
peeling paint and rust and thick black grease, descends to the horizon,
the glowing orange mass poised at the approach
like a molten steel wheel.
— John Simon
© 2012 by John Simon, all rights reserved.