copyright Sandra Crook
Holding the Bridge
I stood on the bridge in my new uniform, picking at the hat’s tight elastic under my chin.
“It’ll stretch out soon,” my boss said. “Remember, no one comes over this bridge.”
It was a cushy job at that forgotten back entrance to the resort.
Until the famine came and desperate people came begging.
I stood and watched as people pleaded, cursed, then died.
I stood and watched as they choked the river with sticks and garbage and clambered across.
When the boss reached the bridge amid the chaos, all he found was a bridge attendant’s hat, the elastic snapped.
The Green-Walled Tower 