We’re all here to see it come down.
Some of us can’t wait until that last stone is swept from its place forever, and some of us simply stand vigil,
like we’re about to pull the plug on our loved one on life support.

While we are at a perfectly safe distance,
it’s pretty **** strange that the workmen put us in this spot specifically.

We’re on the opposite side of the river, close to the town and anything that seems warm and appropriate.
And from here, we can see it all perfectly.
What Crane calls “The Beautiful Monolith,”
and its three crosses.
 
Some of us take pictures. Some of us even pull out rosaries.
People driving stop their cars, shut them off and simply wait.
And wait. And wait.

And then we hear a low, heavy grumble, like the sound of some giant old man waking up after a nap.
 
The bottom is the first to go,
then it moves up the long, slender legs that support the bridge.
Those famous arches warp out of shape while collapsing.
And it looks like the words painted on the bridge are moving.
Yes. They are moving, like the ticker at the bottom of a news report.
 
A beige cloud sits on top of the river, churning as more of the Beautiful Monolith falls. The bridge’s bases are still intact on opposite sides of the river.

We’re told they’ll be removed,
like unwanted tree stumps, by the day’s end.
 
The beige cloud is still writhing, fueled by turn of the century concrete.

And if we squint hard enough,
we can see through the beige cloud,
at the three wooden crosses on the opposite side of the river.
 
Now, they turn and stare at me.
The entire town, it seems.
Several hundred eyes that with no feeling to them,
just wanting answers.
They want to know why, but “why” doesn’t matter.
“How” would just leave them with more questions,
and “where” is something dangerous that should be left up to whatever forces control what is built and what is destroyed.