In the Middle of Some Road

Sometimes—many times— i want to sit 
in the middle of some road very 
few know, and watch the sky, and 
forget, 
though I remember, 
all the reasons I ever cried.

I’m tired, but not in the way of
those who work to eat
despite the price of bread, milk, 
everything’s inflated, though I 
know this kind of tired, too. i
am tired of putting on masks.


Mask 1 hides the bereaved
mother screaming inside.
She asks, “Why am I 
still alive?”
but I tuck her down deep,
even put her to sleep,
so she will not speak 
all that is on her mind. 
"Shhh … little momma, don’t you
cry" although your daughter
is not alive.

Mask 2 tries to disguise a 
brain not made like many
made to recognize everybody’s
ups and everyone’s downs, 
the time to leave,
what to say, how to appear, 
what’s being said under 
the subterfuge, who has the
knife out, who has it in the 
back pocket, and to figure out 
the few who really have
the heart of a locket. 

The lid above the masks 
tucks the nightmares away, 
so they never come out
in the day 
to play; 
smiling like clowns grinning
red-mouthed from sewers
while the music of an 
ice cream truck plays 
lullabies. 

i work in the public, 
yet long for the gardens
where the birds have 
started to chirp, and 
i don’t have to believe that
i’m some creature from a 
black lagoon.

Some speak when they
only hear he said, she said,
they said, or “I heard it through
the grapevine” only i will lose
my mind.
                  “Shh … little momma 
                  don’t you cry” although 
                  your daughter is not alive.

many times, i want to sit 
in the middle of some road very 
few know. there the birds chirp,
and i hear and know they’re real
over the back-and-forth, 
the he said, she said, social media
defense forum; a place without 
a proper prosecution and defense,
so i’ll take a dusty path where 
day lilies grow on a June day, 
and the masks subside. 
I remember, in peace, all the 
reasons I ever cried.

By R.A. Bridges