Below the Bridge

 A bum bellows opera below the bridge.

The rush of combustion motors overhead

And the stench of fowl frozen sewage

Compliments his singing, furthering my dread.

 

To whom does he bellow below that bridge?

Perhaps to I: the arrogant apathetic passerby.

Or maybe he’s just losing an argument

With rushing mechanical combustion motors.

 

Is he praising God or is he cursing the Devil?

His voice is shot and he’s beginning to dwindle.

And I still hear him now.  Echoing and Resonating.

But I still fear him now.  Chilling and Marauding.