Pfluger Bridge
Sit long enough to watch that drummer adjust his snare until the mallet kisses its cheeks held taut with duct tape. The hi-hat has a few screws loose and the way he obsesses over its clapping, you might think he does too. He tells you about Matisyahu. You already Shazammed every song in his set, he smiles at your wonder, he is familiar with bright faces: he sits back to the sun. He tells me in Louisiana they know their right from their left, they play the paradiddles, “Can’t bring out a whole drum set—too much to lose,” but he lets you in on the secret of his bass drum. He’ll tap the rim clockwise each new tone dipping into and out of orbit; the bridge warps into an hour hand, the sunset into the face of a clock. Los muertos claw out of their unmarked graves and the barber shops refill with regulars, the horses on I-35 march in twos on Juneteenth, the children swarm the pews during Semana Santa, even the Caddo filled the streets of taysha again, and I remembered Texas.
1photograph by Sahib Chandnani
Poetry Tip of the Day!
I wrote this poem out of exhaustion. I was tired of writing exclusively between the hours of 12 AM and 6 AM hunched over the desk in my room with only the sounds of West Campus to comfort me. I decided that it would be very poet of me to take my journal on an expedition and find the most interesting possible place to write. I ended up at Pfluger Bridge—a 700 ft pedestrian bridge that sits over Ladybird Lake in Austin, TX. The sunset over the water, graffiti against the train tracks, and most importantly, the drummer who inspired this poem, made for a perfect setting. Hours of sitting on the bridge switching between listening, writing, and daydreaming resulted in this reflection about the Austin I knew and loved and the Austin that once was.
novice