Eastbound and midmorning, I’m driving across the Bay Bridge but it feels more like I’m dancing, my head, three sixty spinning as I do the Electric Slide. The bay looks like someone poured glitter in it, it’s not a color but a quality of light. If it was a color I think it would be purple. There are people driving to work and they smile with their eyes as I John Travolta all over the lower deck. They remember how it used to be. My hips, they dip, my arms look like a squid, I bob my head, Martha Graham, and kiss the back of my hand. I blow it West. My index finger, it extends parallel to the bay, and I spin, fast like in the grass when I was nine, but aware of the direction I face, North and then East, San Francisco and Oakland are blurred at this pace but whatever, I know where I am. Passing by South now, West comes, I look down. My feet, moonwalking, are on the ground. I spin like the world. The sun gets higher and it means business, I tilt with it, step up on the railing and do the twist. Into the glitter, I look over the edge, kick one leg high and throw my hands to the sky, offer it up. I don’t feel like I’m falling–spinning, yes, dancing, yes, but I’m on the bridge and I know it, I could write a textbook on it, this is where I am and God bless gravity. I am a compass.