The scary thing about somebody
jumping from the top of a tall building
is not the fall or the jump itself
or the rush of air that chokes
into being that person’s last breath.
It is not even the man, on his way to work,
who finds the seven body parts
spread across six paving stones.

It is not the sirens that are blue
with nothing to rush to,
nor the cold of the zipper on a black
and silver body bag
or the sound of the bristles
pushed forth and back, forth and back,
until nobody would know of the life
that once saw its last there.

The scary thing about somebody
jumping from the top of a tall building
is the dark they saw
when they stood on the ledge
and looked for the stars,
that maybe they took the stairs
two at a time, or the pile of rubbish
they saw swirling in circles too small
to catch the headlines of that days news.

It is the town that was deserted,
that nobody saw them walk
through the streets or stand at the foot
of the building and look up,
it is the look on their face as they chose
which coat to wear and the way
they closed their blue front door
knowing they had no need to take a key.