Poem: Suicide

The bridge looks taller today,

yet the toll is the same.

Once I wrote a lullaby

in the space of paying $1.50.

little little rattle

under my car

how I wonder

how you are

Robin Williams only fell

the length of his belt.

your rapid tapping

Mauro washed up in Beacon.

your exhausted cough

Emma chose the courtyard window.

your final bleating

before I turn the engine off

Mauro reading his poetry

at Albany Word Fest—

police caution tape

for a joke tie.

Mauro locking his bike

by the bridge. How I wish

I could have led him up

Beacon Mountain to see

the green dragonflies—

fresh injections of spring.

Emma teaching me

Hopkin’s “Windhover”

was called a wind-fucker

in old English, a falcon today.

Emma laughing with a gap

in her teeth which meant sexy

in Chaucer. Oh, Emma—

lying in the courtyard

nobody noticed

till lunchtime.

little little rattle

under my car

I wish you well

for what you are

Robin Williams

never far from

his next joke

about nipples.

in the morning

I’ll be here again

to drive you near & far

My quarters barely fill

the tollkeeper’s hand.

I listen for yodeling,

Robin Williams wind-

fucking all the way

into the Hudson.

This article appears in February 2016.