Tonight's Poet Corner: The Blue Line

The Blue Line
by Belinda Roddie

When I drive away from the city,
I straddle the blue line,

that subtle, glowing guide across
the bridge where shadows

contemplate suicide.

Once the Golden Gate is behind
me, the blue splits into two, like
long, outstretched fingers ready
to catch stars before they fall.

God, that sounds pretentious, and yet
it's so appropriate,

because San Francisco is full
of poets who want to believe
that falling stars are a sign
of good luck, and that bridges

connect us
rather than divide.

By the time I reach suburbia,
the lines have disappeared. Some
might say to me that the blue is just

an illusion brought on by the grins
of street lamps and a damp, dim
sky, but how can I pretend that

it's imaginary
when it was simply too afraid
to follow me home?