This poem appeared in Weird Tales in 1999.
The Cry of Those Waiting Under the Bridge
If not for the water
drip, drop, dripping
down the tendrils sagging
below the rotting bridge–
if not for the water
tip, tap, tapping
on the smooth stone protruding
from the cold and brackish stream–
if I had not been sitting on that stone
for countless days unending
listening to that
drip, drop, dripping–
if my blood were not the black water,
if my heart were not the smooth stone,
if my eyes were not holes a-gaping–
if only this world were fading
and this stinking stream rolling back upon itself
like a hand into a fist–
yes, if I could fall back into stone
and leave off this long waiting
drip, drop, dripping,
then I would let the stranger slowly walking,
trip, trap, tripping
across my bridge,
pass unharmed and unremembered,
but for this endless madness
drip, drop, dripping,
I will make this stranger a hero
in a tale I did not write.
