Boy on the Bridge
Winter, cold; snow and ice
Coating roads, sidewalks
Morning rush hour
Cars speeding across the bridge
A boy, standing
On the wrong side
Near the edge
He looked at me
His brown eyes wide, whites showing.
I never saw eyes that wide
Wrong, this is all wrong.
This boy on the bridge
His eyes, pleading. I couldn’t stop,
I couldn’t.
911, 911, I called,
We’ll send out a car, she said.
A car.
But he’s just a boy, on the wrong side of the bridge. He’s on the edge.
Car, we’ll send one, don’t worry. Words designed to placate me.
Later I called …
The boy on the bridge …
We sent a car, no one was there. There was no boy.
There had been a boy on the bridge.
And four days later they found his body,
Under the bridge, in the water.
All because no one did their job.
And I shall remain forever haunted
By those wide brown eyes
That called to me
And I didn’t answer
madmuser 
Were you one of the people who saw him that day, or are you channeling what someone else was going through? Great poem. It is such a sad event. You captured it perfectly.
Thanks for your kind words, Jennifer. I guess channeling is the word. I was not on the bridge that day but I “felt” what that one woman who was interviewed on TV must have felt, and how she will have to live with the look on Trey’s face for the rest of her life.
Linda Holm referred you to me. I’m a writer and just finished a manuscript that I’m seeking an agent for. She suggested I start a blog and that I check you out.
Hi Jennifer — LOL — yes, Linda told me about you yesterday. Good for you about your book. I agree that a blog is a must, and also, check out some of the writer’s groups on LinkedIn where you’ll get great tips.