Once to die is cast
into a leap or a bullet or a needle,
I believe most suicides decide
they really, really, really
want to live one more day.
Christmas Day.
Happy Birth Day.
An ordinary, boring, trivial
slice off life,
their life,
minus, of course, the mess
that brought them to that
point, barrel, bridge
in the first place.
But, by then,
the gravity of the situation
prevents reversal of their direction.
And, after a four second (or less) wait,
at two hundred miles an hour,
they splatter into the Bay
beneath the Golden Gate.
And, when the tides let,
blend sadly into sun set.