Why I Will Encourage My Future Children To Be Suicide Prevention Counselors And/Or Trampoline Truck Drivers

I hear the smooth jazz

And hit the button for roof,

My heart beating its last,

My face held aloof.

The smog smiles wryly

As the doors slide aside.

I stand still for a moment,

The last time I’ll ever bide.

The horns ring below

From the unthinking mob,

Too tired to be angry,

Too doleful to sob.

The pigeons sing glumly.

I think of my sins.

Below the light turns red.

And my plummet begins.

My mind is cold silver

Filled with screams from below

Yet the light’s green again

And the cars start to go.

And then my fall ends

Not with New York concrete

But a trampoline truck

Driving by on the street.

I find myself soaring

Up and up, past the sky

Even frat boys would say

“He’s really high.”

I fly off the planet,

Gently drop to the moon

Where I land next to Elvis

Atop a dusty gray dune.

Somehow I’m still breathing.

Somehow I’m not dead.

Somehow all this happened

Just like my therapist said!

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