My shins had splints and so I shinned ahead
Using just my arms. The bridge was wet.
My knuckles almost popped out of my skin
From holding on so tight. The cables led
Towards the trolley tracks, towards the trains,
Away from me and all I'd ever been.
We didn't jump until we reached the Camden
Line. And once our feet were on the ground, we met
The seeming dangers of a muggy night.
A man named Dorchester had dimes to deal,
He told us he was carrying a knife.
At first, I liked the shifty grit to life,
But even that grew old. And being real
(The bridge, the ground) slipped distant, loose, trite.