high bridge narrows

can't get here from there
and no way in hell can you
get there without crossing here
on a one-lane, wooden item
from army corps of engineers hell
world war two in a hurry style
that towers above the Nelson River in BC
at the end of Liard Highway,
call this one dirt, rock, mud,
slightly before Fort Nelson,
the now paved Alaska Highway,
so if you want a motel room, dish TV
a hot meal, maybe a strong belt or two,
before the drive to the Yukon
and if you've wandered 400 Territory miles
through the aspen and pine trees,
black bears, woodland bison, caribou, black flies
across a bunch of big streams, small rivers
walleye, northerns, grayling,
then you have to do the bridge,
unless you're into retracing steps,
where timing and crazed attitude
mean more than everything
when push comes to shove,
cheating pain, possibly death
beating roaring truckers that won't stop
midway of the planks with no railings
smashup your car like cheap metal junk
looking to the side down lots of airy feet
into the green, brown, spinning water
makes toes tingle, hearts beat a bit faster,
so light a smoke, take a slug of whiskey
look at the boards right in front
of the car's still smooth hood as you
floor the sucker for a quarter mile
that beats any amusement park blast
you soar over the last pine boards clattering
an enormous semi horn blasts by
in the opposite direction hauling
a blinding storm of road dust
with cheated death swirling within,
so this bridge is really a wake up call
for what lies ahead on the road
in the distance that stretches a
thousand miles, maybe a lot more,
that call's up to you, friend,
into midnight sun with surreal light
that slants forever down
above the Artic Circle...

...but drive the damn bridge first

copyright 2006 John Holt
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