the bridge
where it was dry,
strumming guitars, murmuring
tired nothings, or singing.
I chose quiet,
a patch of grass
on my own.
Middle of the night I felt a tug on my arm.
A girl said, 'Roll over!
Roll over! '
What was THIS?
I obediently rolled. She
produced scissors,
hacked off half my plastic cover.
In Voldenpark
John Garth Raubenheimer
