The Bridge Trolls

 

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We crest the bridge which connects Ohio to West Virginia; a slab of gray mounted by a latticework of steel, marked with two grand signs on either end indicating the state we’re entering and the state we’re exiting. In my mind’s eye, it all has a blueish tint.

The Ohio River runs below. On the Ohio-side banks, the grass is green; a city, peripheral and vague in my memory, sits someplace behind. Ahead, the mountains. Parades; fairgrounds; the Strawberry Festival.

This is a brief of poem, inspired by a recurring bit of folktale-turned-road-game. The rules of the game, I think, are implicit in the poem; it explains itself.

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Lift up your legs

Lest the Trolls get you

For under the bridge they live, here.

They eat little kids,

And they eat little pigs,

And they eat cute little cats too.

If when you cross this bridge,

The soles of your feet

Touch down to floor, beware;

The Bridge Trolls from beneath will gobble you up,

Quick as Owls eating Mice in the night.

So lift up your legs

Keep them well out of reach

Lest the Bridge Trolls grab hold

And snatch you out of your seat.

Hold your breath and be patient,

Make no sound or be faced with

The big mean Bridge Trolls

Who live under here.