For itself, it is the bridge.

For the cops, it’s a magnet for trouble. Drug dealers, thieves, and all manner of criminals were drawn to this place, pulled from every direction. Left to their own devices, they would make the bridge a haven for the dark. So the cops become the light.

For the young, it’s a bastion, a place to find a love for a night. In its shadows and recesses, it hides things. Hides shame, and faces, and names. Those who find each other lose themselves, and do not think to go looking again.

For the homeless, it’s a shelter from the elements. Its walls are cool, its shade comforting. It obscures the poor and the tired from the angry eyes of well-to-do. Its a kind of home.

For the river, it’s the sky. A gray, stone sky, laid down long ago. A simple sky, with no ostentatious ornamentation, no demanding displays. Two lamps on either side light the way home in the night, like guiding stars.

It is as many things as it needs to be, but only for other people. For itself, it is the bridge.