where the writers are
My Portland (Oregon)
a Portland bridge.jpg

The cityscape comes out of the fog, hunched and low, it’s streets and signposts unsettled as we pass through town... the Three J’s ... the parking lots... the bridge so high it blocks the sun.

The cityscape... people and concrete slung low in the saddle; its storied buildings laden with linoleum halls and wood and bells, elevators and floor stops.

I fall asleep on the carpet of father's office while mother talks, father patient. The carpet rough and cool.

Later, the city, the car, the traffic. Watching as sky and glass and concrete wave us along. The clatter as we ride over the manhole covers. The bridge.

I am light and delirious. My friend, the bridge bids me welcome as home we go. We pass by Bekins. I roll over in the back. The car goes woosh down the road. I am soon asleep. Portland.