Don't think about dying

I don’t think about dying crossing the bridge, my shoes are the wrong hue for just a rude thing to do in the middle of the day And drivers on cell phones making hay before sunset speed by in blurry clouds of exhaust with a coffee cup wedged between their thighs peripherally and only for a second think they saw someone at the slimmest edge of their distractions climb over the safety rail, arms stretched and then reaching up as if to pounce from a diving board, they shake their heads and get back to their driving and manic chatter , the really hot coffee is still cradled between their thighs, about to spill and that’s no thrill at all, after all.