​

​The blueprint says the river is a void,
A blue line drawn to keep the sides apart.
On the North bank, the glass drinks the sun,
Reflecting clouds that never rain on those who own them.
On the South, the asphalt holds the heat of a thousand tired feet,
And the air smells of diesel and the “almost-possible.”
​We are taught to look across, but never over.
We are taught that the water is too deep for shaking hands.
The “Efficiency” of the city is a wall built of numbers,
Where a child’s playground is a “decimal error,”
And a grandmother’s porch is “underperforming land.”
​But consciousness is the glitch in the machine.
It is the moment the man in the silk tie
Smells the rain before it hits the penthouse glass,
And remembers the mud between his toes.
It is the realization that the bridge isn’t made of steel,
But of the terrifying, beautiful weight
Of realizing your neighbor’s hunger
Is a ghost that sits at your own dinner table.
​We do not build bridges with stone.
We build them by refusing to look away
Until the “Other” becomes the “Self,”
And the blueprint finally bleeds.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Aubrey Odom on Unsplash