Think of him as a child, the time wasted
As he flipped between chocolate and vanilla,
Sauce and flake or neither. Now it’s tube, blade
Paracetamol or ligature.
He’d haemorrhage beyond recovery
With luck, while waiting for an ambulance
Though more probably, he’d scrape to A&E
And spit gratitude at the consultant.
You care too much to watch him gather dust
In psychiatric corridors. The damage
Done at the precipice must be addressed:
Lead him gently to, but leave him at, the bridge
Above the Archway Road, or let him down
Peacefully on the Northern Line Southbound.