Widow's Walk

,

.

Do you believe that friends you walk

with now think you’re okay?

Maybe some do. But some don't.

You and I are walking the footbridge

high over the white water river

that splits Richmond’s city,

a bridge suspended from the highway

above us that thumps with traffic.

Winds blowing down the James

carry off our careful conversation.

We bump into each other avoiding

cyclists, then hold onto the railing

looking down into whipped-up rapids

where the kayaker died last month

the same day Richard did.

It's a warm day in February,

even with the winds, more like May.

I love it.

But I know what you’re thinking

as we let go the rail:

Why I am up here on this bridge?

Why is it swaying? Why are the rapids

swirling, the friend beside me crazy?

What pounding noise around us?

Why did I just use the phrase

“Aside from my sorrow . . . ”?