Jumper

March in St. Augustine, in 1996,
standing atop the famed lighthouse,
a little ledge, railing enough to
restrain,
I gaze out towards the ocean, tell you
I feel like jumping.
You don’t speak, no words are found,
just nod, an agreement.

Later that day, spent
from walking, dreary from drinks,
I tell you I want to go home.
“I don’t even know why I’m here.”
On one elbow, you face me, across
a black futon, littered in gold stars.
“Meaning of life,” you say, “comes at
the moment of death when it’s too late
to do anything about it.”

Four years later, I sit
in a bathtub, drinking
Earl Grey, and remember
those words. So I write, and try
to do something about it.
What do you do, over a year gone now,
when you feel the need
to jump?