The day is worn out, the moon too tired to rise.
On the hill I slowly descend, I follow taillights,
a long twisting strand of red. White headlights
shoot into my eyes. I get stuck on the bridge. Suspense.

Is getting stuck why suicides choose bridges? Or is it
about the jump? The desire to finish in one dark dive
after thinking too much—or too little. All of us always
at the edge of about-to-end, about-to-start. Tyranny.

I’ve come to terms with getting nowhere.
I stall my fears with distractions I don’t really enjoy.
Tiny windows light up with simple games.

In my dark apartment, two gray cats wait for me,
hungry. What would happen to them if I couldn’t return?
I think about slow starvation. I think about crazed escape.

Published in Tar River Poetry

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