Who we are:
Contact info:

Brooklyn Bridge
a poem by B. Russell

Maybe I was already a little crazy
before I met her,
but what happened
didn't really help.
But why bore you with
details of that criminal past.

What it amounts to is that
I got down low,
real low.
Thinking terrible things,
thinking I might do something
to her or myself.
Most likely me.

That night, I trek downtown
(rosy pink sky),
with a bottle of Jack in a brown paper bag,
full up on barbituates, nicotine,
and a pocketful of shells.

It's getting dark when I reach
Brooklyn Bridge.
I stumble on,
take one more swig,
.22 gripped lightly in my hand.
Some big riverboat party is going on below,
they're turning the sound up
to hear the band play.
I stand up right at the edge
and think about jumping
and think about firing
and think real hard.

Then I say to myself,
That Bitch Ain't Worth It.
My moment of triumph,
once again life prevails.
I turn to get off
but in an ironic turn of events
I lose my balance
(had a bit too much),
and drop into the river.

When I come to,
I'm lying face up on the riverbank.
I can't tell if I'm thankful
or simply relieved to be alive.
The sun hurts my eyes,
and I can't find the pistol, bottle, pills.
Not sure how I got to shore either.
Maybe mermaids dragged me in,
my goods as payment for their act of kindness.
It doesn't actually matter.
By instinct, I reach in my pocket
to pull out a smoke
(always smoke after tragedy and sex).
The pack's completely water-logged
and my shiny lighter, gone.
I make my way up the embankment
and brush myself off
as best I can.

I hail a cab.
The driver doesn't want me to get in
after he sees what a mess I am.
I get in anyway,
handing him a still-damp fifty.
Keep The Change.
The driver grumbles, but drives.
And then my eyes close.

Take me home, driver,
take me home.
I've had my fill of water.