There’s no year-old daughter’s red robe hanging
from the doorknob shouting Stop. That exalted time
of life has passed me now, our kids grown and gone.
I’m halfway down the river, and things could change
but Suicide? I can’t say I’ve ever considered it, Jim,
although you say you did and although you could be
a tall-tale-teller I must believe in that season of your life
you did. To think what would never have come to be—
Dalva, “Livingston Suite,” plus Kooser’s winter walks
with you in mind. I confess for a second my junky brain
wonders how you would’ve done it—Yesenin’s rope?
Brautigan’s bullet? Millstone tied ‘round your neck
as you drifted to the bottom of one of your rivers?
I guess there’s always the fear of somehow being
infected by suicide, but still, the notion never took root.
I suppose I’m too chicken, having annually watched
It’s a Wonderful Life too many years. But wait—what if
it’s that I’ve just not really walked a long black valley yet?
No, no red robe. But there is a dog leash hanging now
by the back door, the 6yr-old Cockapoo shouting Let’s go!
Robes. Dogs. Girl-next-door Donna Reed. Tethers that
keep us lashed to the mast of this wonderful, lonely little
life so that not all we like sheep end up going astray.