Our faith rested
on its arched spine
that rippled with
each footfall
dissipated the tension
held tight as a loaded spring.
Now its decks are shuffled
onto waiting barges
its struts revealed
as rusted lace
no longer worthy
of our trust.
The bridge retreats
to the edges of the city
even as the river swells
with snowmelt
that flows across
the intentional rubble.
Navigating under
the wide winter sky,
we look east,
step onto the
flat ice stones
and cross over.
We are used to finding
our way among ruins.
Beth Feldman Brandt works in the arts in Philadelphia where she finds plenty of Philadelphia stories.