Fear of falling

It used to be suicide was a private affair

a lone moment

my mother had in a carroll street kitchen

a bottle of pills in one hand

a glass of water in the other,

she looking down at me

playing with my toy air plane

on the scratched tile floor

Or my uncle who used to 

take his weekly walk to
the Wall Street Bridge

where he deliberated his next move

to plunge into the deepest

part of the river

or even rock groupies seated 

in my car after too much cocaine

aching over the guitarist

or drummer who hadn't

taken them to the motel

having found pills to mix 

with booze they hoped

might let them forget

forever,

these days we stage the event

take a photo days ahead

then issue a press release 

that a dramatic moment

might be hand for the right person

at the right time

and don't forget to bring 

your popcorn

no one to blame

no one to take credit

just pure drama

the private moment locked

in the victim's own imagination

never actually experienced

always at the edge 

always living with the real

fear of falling