Scene:
The Number Ten, Wednesday Night,
Going over the Central Avenue Bridge,
Passes four MPD cars, one with a boat attached;
Five men in blue uniform huddle together, arms crossed, casually speak into shoulder mounted radios.
As their faces illuminate, blue shadows red highlights,
The passengers erupt in an echoing chorus:
     "Jump?"
          "Jump."

One little girl, thick braids framing innocent curiosity:
     "Jump?"
Her father, hesitating:
     "Sometimes the world is too much for one person."

     "Jump." "Jump."
The refrain continues the expanse of the bridge,
But has faded to no more than a whisper by the University Avenue Stoplight,
Escaped from your chapped lips:
     "j u m p."

Scene:
Two years prior,
You, finding yourself twelve hundred miles from home,
Face the Hudson River.
The surface of the water such a bright blue
But you can't see the riverbed underneath;
Nothing but a waist-high stone wall between you and discovering
Just how deep the bottom is.
Smoke a few more cigarettes while you keep asking yourself,
     "Jump?"
Two weeks later,
Fly back home, stand on the Snelling Avenue bridge looking over the train yard.
Here, it would be messy.
Here, you wouldn't disappear.
Here, you would create something far more beautiful in your death than you could ever be in life,
Organs splayed out across the tracks like a brand new ******* painting.
Take a picture on your phone,
Remind yourself of your canvas, save it for later.
You aren't quite ready to jump.