A door, an open door
between the kitchen
and the window from where
I can see the bridge.
I cannot decide which it will be,
bridge or knife.
until I smile
and once again decide
that my hesitation head,
my tears of self-pitying,
could not but be a grotesque scene
of a play where the actor isn’t me,
no, no, not me!
It can’t be me,
I have wife and children,
a God to love, and hedges to shear and
grass to mow, seeds to sow . . .
I’ll take my last pill,
my last Prosac Pill
and throw the others
in the sterile
blueish water
of the can.
I can
be decisive
if I want to!

God God God
please make me turn
to the bathroom
please