The Overpass
M.E. Bredimus
Just where 208 edges into
Franklin Lakes,
The highway jumps up
Over the railroad tracks.
The overpass, white
And monument-like, slopes
Down into a gentle gully.
At seventeen we squatted,
Sneakered on its cement incline,
Smoked dope and drummed the
Covers off New Jersey Government.
Cousin Bruce Morrow boomed
From our cheap transistors; we
Slow-danced at odd angles
Under the low overpass,
To the scratchy offerings of
WABC. Our scent clung to wet
Goldenrod, tobacco and Tabu.
We coupled on the vinyl sleeves
Of varsity jackets,
Hung translucent fruit
From the Queen Anne’s lace.
The mist caught under the
Causeway, circled the fat
Concrete columns, only to
Be torn through by the passing
Of a Sealand train.
My name remains, sprayed across
The steel struts beneath
The whine and rumble of wheels.
The lady’s slipper still
Shines beside the Schaefer cans.
The rusted stanchions shelter
Someone else’s children,
Itching to get on with it.
Poetry Atlas is not just about beauty spots and famous landmarks. It also includes suburban streets and highway overpasses.
Poetry Atlas has many poems about New Jersey.
