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.
