1976

There was a number for it
Nineteen seventy six

The peppercorns
Just seedlings

And the view from the bridge
A city without its teeth

That gaped sky
Could swallow us whole

Our red Plymouth
Rubber soles
Cigarettes
And all

But we only feel
Its breath

And light
Through the hairs

Where our fingers
Meet the rest
Of our bodies

The first of our years
To be numbered

This poem appears in


Wire Walkers

Pass it Along

© Brendan Bonsack
February 2015