The Great American

Rain streaks from a blacktop sky on the asphalt

shingles of the covered bridge, the collaborative

Great American Novel scrawled in magic marker

on the triangle beams holding up the roof. One

day, someone decided the river was easier

to ford under shelter and over rotting wood. One

day, Megan stood across and called over to me.

I stepped into the water and waded over,

in canvas shoes and good slacks to be nearer

to her yellow hair and her eyes, set wide in a face

innocent and annoyed. Walking back on the covered

bridge, carrying sodden clothes, I dripped out one

long draft of that novel in river water.

All it read was ‘want.