A Cigarette Under the Bridge

Today? Tomorrow? What time is now?

It spans the harbor
like a colossus,
its towers jutting
from out the water
like massive legs,
and it chains
one side of the Bay
to the other side,
linking them like
the errant mutant flesh
between conjoined twins,
and I am standing
in its vast shadow,
alone, with an unlit
cigarette dangling
from my unsmiling lips.

I'm trying to peer out
across the water,
out towards the horizon,
but the mist from
off the water
as the sun rises
makes everything
hazy and indistinct.

I can't see much, the details are lost.

Foggy, damp and a little cold
and the tide is rising
in thick, white-capped swells
that rock the tour ships
and the beat-up tugboats
passing under the bridge.
I imagine I can hear
the faint clamor of voices,
sounds from distant shores,
carried by the wind across
cold turbulent waters,
and I roll my cigarette
from one side of my mouth
to the other, thinking.

Under the bridge,
a gust of wind carries
spray from off a passing
wave...

I feel like I've been dusted with diamonds.

I take the cigarette
from between my lips
and slip it into
my shirt pocket, turning,
and I walk out from
under the bridge's shadow.
My liquid jewelry
glints in the sunlight.

Tomorrow is good enough.