The Bridge That Wouldn’t Open

Let’s say you arrive at this glorious beast of a bridge,
and they tell you they can’t open it, something’s busted, the electricians are on their way, might be hours, might be more, and so you shrug and make tea and kick your feet up and stare out the wide-open doorway where the swamp crowds in green and humming,

and there’s not a single mosquito, not one, just dragonflies and frogs and mysterious chirps in the underbrush, a whole miniature freeway of critters bustling past like you’re watching rush hour on the bayou,

and you eat a little snack and let the brass band rave bounce off the tin roof and realize you’re not even mad, not even waiting, because everything is kind of perfect and what were you rushing toward anyway?