I have taken a bench on the bridge
my parents walked when courting 
under the shadow of the Times-Square 
building in downtown Rochester.
 
The city scene is gray, intentional, a mini-Gotham,
the waters of the Genesee slow and dirty-green,
shallow and fetid, where I’ve come out
once again to greet the evening.
 
And she appears, a child herself
carrying another under the faded rainbow
tank-top, stretched tight and stained, she leans
against the heavy railing and stares at the water.
 
High above, the white gulls fly
toward the great lake.  They use the river
as a guide, like a line on an aerial map,
and the child smiles at me, once, and turns away.
 
What is here is here and what has gone has gone.
Under the steel towers, under the statue of Mercury,
the brick and glass looming over the bridge, 
such ruins among such strong forms.