The troubled bridge showed its bones of youth,
Some muscles left over,
Not atrophied, but not as they were.
Signs of trophies in a past of strength,
When I supported all who passed by in need.
A design followed by many,
Certain angles, forged stability,
Joints secured by lap joints, proven over centuries,
And bolts of the strongest iron,
Built to carry railroad engines and their truck.
But now, I seem troubled,
Unused by all, except children and teenagers,
Seeking a thrill,
The river now a magnet for shopping trolleys and old strollers,
Washing away all signs of my historic past, as a stream below erodes.
This bridge is now a place of tranquility,
Interrupted by short outbursts of conversation,
Or a dangerous, wonderful discovery for children,
Finding something purposeless in their midst.
And those underage drinkers and smokers, searching for peace.
Still, I appear, a troubled bridge to some,
Yet pleased with my new role as a destination.