Heaven's Bridge from Hell

It's a small bridge over a ditch
from the parking lot
to a soccer field;
decorative more than useful:
if it rained enough to fill the ditch
they wouldn't be playing soccer anyway.

Yet I always cross over it
late at night with my dog
on our evening walks
and I think of the young man
who stood here at sunset
mouthed his father's rifle
and pulled the trigger of his life.

The scientist I am sees
wood, pavement and concrete,
surrounded by bushes and grass
and wrappers cluttering the walk
without any residue of grief.

The young altar boy in me
feels the pain of a stranger;
sees a shadow weeping
in a ditch dried with blood,
his future kicked away
like a ball lost in traffic,
burst from his life,
when the bullet exploded
all the dreams he couldn't hold inside,
the nightmares that escaped.

The scientist looks around
at clouds covering the moon
understands that molecules
returned to the cosmos recycled
while nothing remains here
but traces left to be absorbed.

The altar boy shivers
as he crosses the Spot;
mentally genuflects in respect
and prays to St Michael
to defend him in battle.