Arsenic Lobster poetry journal	Final Issue 2018
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Stonework Kelley White So a walk outside to the covered bridge. 17 years old. 1995. Not a good year. Though I met you after I was divorced. J.T. Grimes cut a great scar into my beloved countertop. Beloved. I’d had the house. Two years. I hear J.T.’s up now. I will not have long to do this. Better to finish folding the laundry. I do it poorly. I met K.T.L. at the covered bridge. Behind the fire station. She said wasn’t I cold in those thin pants. But I wasn’t and my funny hat with the earflaps was really too warm and I had stopped to look at the ice at the cold water rushing beneath it at the way it boils rolls cold. I cannot even climb that little hill behind it without stopping and finding my heart is pounding. Her husband is a fireman but not at this station though this is where he lives. His children all grown up now. We used to camp on the other side of the brook from here or did we? With bedrolls. Roles. Perhaps not. And perhaps I do not know how they met. California. If was he a cop there and his father well. He had trouble with his back back trouble with booze. My father would sometimes put a twenty dollar bill in the mailbox. Twenty dollar bill. We had that great boat. And he is not a boy. Now. All of our children watched the day they pulled the bridge across the water. He wading with his girls. I on the bank. My children. Watching. The oxen winding the rope all day around the great stone wheel.

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