A Sad Bridge In Eastern Europe
In a Slavic city,
Unpronouncable, on a concrete bridge,
Spanning churning gray water,
Smokestacks on the shrore belching yellow fumes.
Peering over an English paper
I saw her and we locked eyes.
She joined me on the bench:
'All alone? ' she asked.
Then we exchanged pleasantries
That soon, so soon, became profound.
Of course it began to rain.
We held hands and trotted off the bridge.
Here she told
me she had to return to work,
Home or boarding-house.
It was predestined, my loneliness, for why else was I here.
Walking the drizzling streets,
Crowded with gray brick buildings,
impossible Complex corners,
I wandered for hours,
Just needing a hand to hold.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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