To an Old Friend Who Died Young

The first time was a game, we all agreed,
a cry for help, of course, but nothing more
and then you dove out over 87th Street.  

The maid was due at noon - you gambled she’d
smell gas as soon as she came near the door –
that first time was a game. We all agreed 

you missed your ex; you shrugged, you blamed the weed
and promised us there would be no encore –
but then you broke apart on 87th Street  

that Sunday morning.  What voices did you heed,
what madness crept up to the 14th floor?
The first time was a game, we all agreed;  

we spoke of how you always seemed to need
attention; called up stunts you’d staged before -
and then you sailed out over 87th Street, 

and gave the game an ending guaranteed
to make it clear who kept the final score.
The first time was a game, we all agreed;
and then you plummeted to 87th Street.

First published in Lucid Rhythms