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Driving Through a Bridge MAG
The bus rolls along under a bridge, and I 
 remember tumbling down the slide in the
 neighborhood playground. Rusted green, 
 the bright
 plastic slide curved and dipped precariously.
 It had a covering on top, blocking out the
 sun. I would cry as my body was
 jostled from side to side. I was as far in
 as I was out, in these shadowy
 tunnels.
 
 The arches of the bridge blot out any
 light, as the bus tumbles over the asphalt.
 Like ants we crawl
 between sharp blades of grass,
 the sun is but a pinprick in the sky.

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