Talking Him Down

What’s the point of standing on that ledge?
You’re incapable of falling fast enough
to die upon impact.  
There’s not enough to you.  You would waft
back and forth all the way,
featherweight.

Step back, don’t be stupid —
the world needs more like you, always thinking,
inventing machines that run on
the combustion of dusty artificial flowers,
developing new ways
to control traffic in Minas Tirith,
pissing on your own garden to keep it bare
and sterile and free of weeds.

You don’t have to be in control
of everything.  Let Death be Death,
coming to you unexpected
at an inconvenient time.  You can call out
your rage then.  You can cry all you want then.
Maybe you’ll gain enough substance by then
for people to note your passage
and not brush you off when you’re gone.