Missing Bridge

Under the porch light,I pick through the garbage.As I squeeze used napkinsand move paper platesand a dripping milkshake cupfrom one trash bag to another,my father leans on his cane, watching.

I ask the questions,the ones I'm sick to death of asking,about when and where.He peers at me with the bluest eyesand thinks he rememberssetting it by the guesthouse sink.

My mother stays home to searchwhile I drive him there.As I'm opening the door,she phones, says she's found it.

Over the road back,the moon hangs full to bursting,framed between sylvan hills,filling the Appalachian sky.I stop, cut the car lights,open the windows to scent of pine.

We sit awash in the radiance.I beg him not to forget.