Walking the Trestle

They are all behind you, grinning,
with their eyes like dollars, their shouts
of dare you, dare you, dare you
broken by the wind. You squint ahead
where the rusty trestle wavers into sky
like a pirate’s plank. And sun shines
darkly on the Susquehanna, forty feet
below. You stretch your arms
to the sides of space and walk
like a groom down that bare aisle.
Out in the middle, you turn to wave
and see their faces breaking like bubbles,
the waves beneath you flashing coins,
and all around you, chittering cables,
birds, and the bright air clapping.