Covoiturage

Sparks burned through the tarp

slung beneath the drawbridge to catch

the debris cast by the laborers 
busy doing Lord knows what to the girders,

repairing or replacing them, and all work 
screeched to a halt for fear the falling bits 
would fall into the water, harm the migrating fish

speeding through the congested river.

The company was canned unceremoniously
and the bridge, still closed, sat quietly for months,

bristling with orange cones, as a new

contractor was hunted for.We mumbled 
but succumbed to the detour,

those of us who worked downtown

having no choice but to drive south

half a mile downstream, to the next bridge over,

from which the first could be seen, waiting 
patiently above the river,

white tarp slapping beneath its abdomen

like some kind of flag of surrender.

Below, the salmon passed undisturbed

on their on their way to work, unperturbed

by the inconveniences we were suffering,
the tough sacrifices we were making, 
the extent of the trouble we were taking

to ensure that nothing would interrupt their commute, 
so that nothing would detour them from their route,

as their tiny brains remained focused solely on 
reaching the ocean, our mutual destination.