| Under
the Overpass
by
Jeb Obrian
Fifty
feet above, the steady whir
of traffic and the slur of rubber
on asphalt sounds like a river.
On calm nights I can look down
at Lake Union and see the lights
of the city reflected in water.
No stars. Heaven here is I-5 -
north to Canada, south to Mexico -
but below, as in an empty cathedral
strewn with broken bottles,
random car parts, and old newspapers,
I lie here and breathe gas.
Some day these pillars will fall,
but listening to a river tonight
I'll sleep well, under the overpass.
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