The Ghost that Walks the Bridge

poem

Bob Hershon

---

Last night, as I traveled 
from Newark Airport
into Manhattan, I thought
to call Bob, my poetry

editor, in Brooklyn to let
him know that I’d arrived. 
I’d made that same call 
dozens of times during 

my literary career.
But I couldn’t make
that call last night 
because Bob isn’t alive

to answer the phone. 
He died two years ago. 
So I ask my driver
to cross to the other

side of Manhattan
and drive north on
the FDR so I can see
the Brooklyn Bridge. 

It’s a serious detour
and will cost me more
but I suddenly know
that greeting the bridge

will be my new way
of letting Bob know
that I’ve arrived. 
Hello, Bridge. Hello,

Brooklyn. Hello, Bob. 
Dear Bob, I know you
didn’t believe in ghosts
but I’m going to change

you into a ghost walking
your Brooklyn Bridge.
You loved that bridge. 
And I love the thought

of you being irritated
that I’ve transformed
you into a ghost.  
“Sherman,” you’d say.

“You know I don’t
believe in this shit.”
But then you’d pause,
consider the implications

of ghosthood, and realize
that you get to walk
the Brooklyn Bridge
for the rest of time. 

And then you’d smile 
and make plans. Bob,
I’m going to pretend
that your ghost spends

his days and nights 
whispering poems
into the ears of strangers
on the bridge. I’ll pretend

that you especially enjoy 
whispering to the serious 
tight-ass poets
of New York City. “Hey,” 

you’ll say to them. 
“The world is corrupt, 
barren, and busted
but it’s also superb

and bursting with so
much goddamn beauty 
that the whole goddamn
world becomes 

the Brooklyn Bridge
illuminated by 
a thousand thousand
lights. And, buddy,

you better learn before
you die that everything
is goddamn hilarious,
especially the afterlife.”