The Bridge

I love.  Wouldn’t we all like to start
a poem with “I love…”?  I would.
I mean, I love the fact there are parallel lines
in the word “parallel,” love how

words sometimes mirror what they mean.
I love mirrors and that stupid tale
about Narcissus.  I suppose
there is some Narcissism in that.

You know, Narcissism, what you
remind me to avoid almost all the time.
Yeah, I love Narcissism.  I do.
But what I really love is ice cream.

Remember how I told you
no amount of ice cream can survive
a week in my freezer.  You didn’t believe me,
did you?  No, you didn’t.  But you know now

how true that is.  I love
that you know my Achilles heel
is none other than ice cream—
so chilly, so common.

And I love fountain pens.  I mean
I just love them.  Cleaning them,
filling them with ink, fills me
with a kind of joy, even if joy

is so 1950.  I know, no one talks about
joy anymore.  It is even more taboo
than love.  And so, of course, I love joy.
I love the way joy sounds as it exits

your mouth.  You know, the word joy.
How joyous is that.  It makes me think
of bubbles, chandeliers, dandelions.
I love the way the mind runs

that pathway from bubbles to dandelions.
Yes, I love a lot.  And right here,
walking down this street,
I love the way we make

a bridge, a suspension bridge
—almost as beautiful as the
Golden Gate Bridge—swaying
as we walk hand in hand.

[C. Dale Young]