The flux of the intersection was comforting that afternoon.
The Starbucks was closed. Chase Bank, too. I watched
police cars thicket. Watched the ambulance braid through traffic.
What could remain of him? Found hideous on both ends,
sopped in his own pulp. Someone from work said,
Better here than Suicide Bridge over in Aurora.
As I foxed between the pulsing crowd, I ached to find myself
within the splash, go rolling in it. The spread of him flared
my eyes wide, pretty, while the bust of sirens stabbed,
and the ill-gotten guts grew ginormous. I was floored
by the thought, the man leaping from the roof like a shirt
thrown out the window, thrashing its thread and cotton
for the wind. A dance so familiar the breeze would take the cuffs
and twirl twice before leaving.
During lunch, I went outside into the after-scent.
The thicket shriveled. Traffic barely combed the streets.
I looked to the sky. It was Pacific blue, blue enough an orca whale
could swim in its deep. The twinkle of sunbeams serving as waves
crashing on the banks of the mountain range. I was glad.
Not because death promised arousal. I shook with thirst.
The image painted me hypnotized. But for the man.
It was a beautiful day to die. To give yourself back to the cycle.