My Malleable Mate

Sleek, shiny, metallic, glowing
under the desk lamp, holding
things together without the messiness
of glue or wounds from staples—
you are matchmaker, offering connection
without commitment, no strings,
a pliable body, the Swiss-army knife
of office supplies. Able with a few
well-placed bends to—floss teeth,
open letters, clean fingernails (ears
with great care), pick bathroom locks,
remove cell phone batteries, serve
as a stylish earring, a screwdriver
and in a pinch can be weaponized
for a street fight or to ward off
the advances of offices mates.

Coronado Bridge

Driving over the Coronado bridge,
I see ahead a faded red BMW stopped,
emergency lights flashing —
and I know another person has taken their life.

Two hundred feet below a harbor patrol boat,
searches the red stained water,
seeking the body of one who could not face another day,
even another minute.

The rust proof, anti-suicide spikes glisten in the sun —
a measure taken a few years ago because of the low wall
that runs the 2.1 mile length of the bridge.

This beautiful fifty-million-dollar bridge
with its twenty-seven concrete pillars,
sweeping eighty-degree curve,
has bid farewell to over four hundred individuals
since it opened August 3, 1969.

Passing the faded red BMW and looking west,
I can see the Hotel Del Coronado.
Its red roof spires and bright white buildings
a welcoming beacon to the well-to-do since 1888.

To the Northeast is the ferry terminal,
recalling a simpler pre-bridge time,
when cars were loaded on boats and ferried across to the Island
which is really not an Island.

There were three ferries, each divided in two.
The cars would be driven on and guided to one side or the other
by a man in a bright vest holding a flashlight with a fancy red attachment.

The passengers would leave their cars
for a position at the wooden railing,
hoping to catch a view of San Diego—
exhaust fumes mingling with the smell of salt air and
the black tar that coats the dock pilings.

No one ever leapt to their death from the ferry,
no one was in a rush to reach the other side,
and, if you timed your crossing just right,
you could catch the setting sun turning the sky a glorious red.

The Shower

The warm water
like fingers
gently kneading
my knots of sorrow

now hands of a surgeon
splaying my chest,
cracking open my ribcage

exposing arteries—
clogged with
busyness, denial,
rupturing with anger.

Strong hands
massaging my heart,
loosing obstructions,
bringing release.

I collapse in the corner
sucking my washcloth,
cascading water
camouflaging my sobs.

Quaking with grief,
the warm Water washing over me—
holding me, soothing me.