I don’t really like the ferries that make the water a scary vortex,
or the blurry white sun that blinds me, or the adorable small families 
of distressed ducklings that swim in a panic when a speedboat cuts 
through, spewing a miasma into the river, but I love the Longfellow 
Bridge’s towers that resemble the silver salt and pepper canisters 
on my kitchen table. They belonged to Mother. The Department 
of Conservation is restoring the bridge masonry now. Paddling under 
its big arches, I feel weary, as memory floats up, ignited by cigarette 
butts thrown down by steelworkers. I want to paddle away, too.