To stop you
from taking the watery plunge off Golden Gate’s
infamous point of no return
has been my goal since
the first night I met you
in coach as you flew
between cars
looking for anyone to confess
your desolation, isolation, configuration
to your final out of control
spiral through the rings of HELL.

Cajoling, coercing, connecting
to the real you
is a tough road, my friend,
for the part that wishes for life
won’t listen
beyond the immediate pain
unemployment checks used to fill in
with numbers low enough
that bank tellers snicker
when handing
the meager payouts
to your sweating palms
that always need to hold a drink
– vodka – water chaser
a bubbly sparkling blend inside crinkled plastic bottles
that fools nobody
but it medicates you, as you admit,
to accept reality
one more stinkin’ day.

After hours of telephone counseling
the wound surprisingly healed over
a thin layer of, “I’m okay, really,
you’ve cured me.”

But are you?

How did you turn it around?

You haven’t explained it
yet
so is the truth
a convenient lie
Al Gore would be proud of
to get me off your back?

We plan to meet
in person
on that final weekend
of gamesmanship
between the Giants and Padres
for the division title.

But here’s the bigger problem:
Do you promise
to stop me
from jumping off the highest building
if my team loses
or will we go hand and hand
gently into the night
one for lack of hope
the other for
lack of perspective?