There’s the bridge, called the Kennedy bridge
in a few towns, I know.
It’s a symbol and yet a mean of communication
between two sides of something
(anything in fact)
a road between the banks of the river, the railroad tracks.
I often think of a bridge as a rod and a line, connected to the unknown
Expectation.
Rise and fall.
The change.
The choice.
The chance.
The beauty of a straight sharp line.
(As there are no turns nor twists on a bridge.)
It’s a place where you cross when the decision is already made.
Sometimes on both
Sides.
That is why Kennedy’s bridge is a perfect name for any bridge, as wherever it leads to it
leads to a place of a choice.
I remember
(although I was not born at that time)
my granddad crying when he heard the news on JFK in Dallas.
And his wife held his head as she heard
Jacklin did
with John’s.
I think of it when I cross any bridge
In particular
the Kennedys.
As the more beauty and artistic splendor, that structure has
the more strength the symbol of a bridge
bears —
the symbol
that goes with the name
as the name
and its glory
always cross
first.
And this is precisely what Ed Kennedy failed to consider
in 1969
leaving the site of an accident
and then watching all the glory of his name
falling from that ill-starred
Chappaquiddick
bridge
with the car with that drowned corpse, he left behind.
That destroyed the whole glamour
of the
Kennedys
name
over-
night.
24.09.17
Bonn
