Catwalk Poem by Charles Malcolm

I stumble across the bridge
with a crooked cigarette in hand
running my fingers against the volcanic edge.
The concrete feels like a pumice stone
or the fine black hairs above her hole
that sprout after long weekends
spent screwing
drinking away groceries and toiletries.

There are other holes and other bridges
in every city that I've stumbled through.
I left a Cadillac bumper in the Chicago River.
I vomited red wine over the side in Lansing.
I tossed a dress shoe onto the I-5.

I don't know what it is
about women
but I've managed to cross
every bridge
and hold onto most of the important bits
so far.