on the brae of the bridge,
sitting in my car, not moving,
in a sea of glass and steel,
of furious and patient heads
through windows, not moving,
listening to the radio,
the daily news, a phone-in, bland
authoritative voices steer
each question and reply, and
i am here, in my car, not moving,
like every head around me,
all prisoners in purring cells
of glass and steel, listening
to the radio, bland voices
steering thought, but
then, a verbal claymore
slicing off bland heads,
the voice of fury rises from
a mobile phone imprisoned in
a sea of glass and steel, still
not moving, though that voice
shifts mountainsides of
lies and plausibilities and takes
the breath from those bland voices,
pain of fury flaming on the radio,
a wild cascade of condemnation,
then the anger ebbs, and in
the shade of thought, declares a
love for partner, prisoner i may be
in this frozen tide, but we stay
close, and now i see each other
prisoned face, in each closed cell
of glass and steel, break into smiles
and now i let my own thoughts rise
like doves, to fly toward you, love,
to fly toward you, love