Watch him fall forever

“If you are God’s Son, jump. He will tell his angels to catch you in their arms. You will not hurt your feet on the stones below.” – Luke 4:13

graveyard, odd,
day, part-time,
night, moonlight
hand, blow, whack. . .
he’d a’taken any job he could get and
she looked like a piece of work, seemed
young—new to the profession,
legs longer than he had left in hours,
skirt shorter than he measured upright
in the crotch of his 33s—
probably sucked fewer pricks than she’s smoked fags,
she took a drag,
tore her nylons to keep ‘em from looking snagged,
ratted her hair to keep it from getting messy and
smiled at him as she walked by.

This wasn’t the chance in life he had been waiting for
but he would take what he could get,
so he reached into his pocket,
pressed his back against the warm brick wall
of the abandoned church and prayed
to rub his copper against her silver skin.

When he looked up,
she was gone, so he staggered down
the street downing the only
bottle of booze he could buy
with chump change,
tonguing the lipstick tipped cigarette
spit from her lips,
pinched it between his teeth
suckled as though
it were one of her perky nipples,
rolled over it, stabbed, flicked.

When the filter broke up,
his and her saliva flooded
to the back of his throat.
He hacked—dark brown splat
against grey concrete. He
wiped the side of his mouth
with the back of his hand and
looked around to see who noticed.

No one did.
Everyone was in a hurry
going nowhere.

He rounded the corner quick—turning 40
if only he could sip more smog into his lungs
but he’s felt dead inside for years
so he scoped the 101
watched cars from the overpass
hoping this past
sunrise was his last
and he searched
for a place
to get to the end
of his day—
to cut to the chase
‘cause the cuts in his arms
didn’t do the job.
Maybe if he could have found one
he’d still have kids,
a car, his house, his
dog and his old lady, too.
Jumping seemed like
the easiest thing to do.