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Title: “Bridge With a Wet Mouth” The bridge hangs there chewing on traffic, dripping iron into the river like it’s got a habit it can’t kick. Water slaps the pilings with a flat hand, keeping time for nobody. A barge slides through slow and ugly, loaded with things that don’t ask questions. The engine rattles like a coffee can full of screws and bad intentions. A man stands on the dock with his collar up, not waiting for anything, just occupying space the way a match occupies a dark room before it flares. He spits once, watches it vanish, doesn’t follow it. The river doesn’t answer. It never does. It just keeps its mouth open. Lights crawl along the bridge, red to white to gone, like a lousy magic trick that still works. Somewhere a siren leans into the night and doesn’t apologize. The city squats behind concrete shoulders, breathing through vents and busted windows, all elbows and paperwork. The tugboat coughs again, scrapes past the dock, leaves a wake that bangs around like loose change. A gull laughs like it knows something you don’t need to hear. The moon hangs back, half-lit, minding its business. The man pulls his coat tighter, steps off the dock, boots ringing once and then not at all. The bridge keeps chewing. The river keeps moving. Everything that matters is already in motion, and none of it needs a witness.
The bridge was humming like a bad jukebox, all wires and regrets, strung tight over the river’s black mouth. The moon hung there like a bruised coin somebody tried to spend twice. I stood on the dock with my coat full of weather, watching a tug push its sins upstream, a barge loaded with yesterday—rust, coal, and the kind of promises that don’t make it past morning.
The river smelled like pennies and prayer. Lights from the bridge jittered across the water, nervous as a drunk’s handwriting. A gull laughed like it knew something I didn’t, and maybe it did. I had smoke in my chest and a name I wasn’t using anymore. The city behind me clinked glasses and counted change; the city ahead just waited.
The tug’s engine coughed, a tired old boxer leaning on the ropes, and the barge slid by with a low moan. Every plank on that dock knew my boots. Every knot in the rope had heard me swear. I’d been here long enough to grow barnacles on my thoughts. Long enough to learn that the river keeps better secrets than men.
I thought about the girl with the crooked smile and the piano hands, how she said I was trouble like it was a compliment. Thought about the room where the ceiling leaked time and the radio only played songs about leaving. Funny thing is, nobody tells you where to go—just where not to stay.
A truck groaned overhead, headlights blinking Morse code to no one in particular. The bridge didn’t care. Bridges never do. They just hold the weight and let you decide which side you’re on.
When the tug disappeared, the water stitched itself back together. I flicked my smoke into the dark and watched it die like a little white flag. The night shrugged. Somewhere a door slammed, somewhere a song started, and I stood there listening to the river chew on the past, thinking maybe tomorrow I’d cross that bridge—or maybe I’d let it cross me.
