Unjumpers

the kid who won't jump
     (a little bit pudgy,
           big for his age)
stands at the lip of the pool

arms outstretched over elementary water
     an incomplete sketch
          of a plan for a bridge
from here to the safety of homeagainquick.

lifeguard pretends to care, counts
     backwards from three.
          and again.

bends knees and waist, cranes neck
elbows out wide ass far behind
lowers himself to lessen the
                                              drop
but never leaves the side.

meanwhile
in the observation room

i can't decide
     if i should cheer him on
          or shove him from behind.
"it's only up to your goddamn chin," i say
to the window that keeps me dry
while he struggles and shivers poolside.

but i know fear: know he's thinking--
it doesn't matter how far up it comes;
but how far
                 down
                         it
                            goes.

we are each of us alone
on a ledge somewhere sometimes
bridging out to an indifferent hand.

we are each of us weighing
the distance from here to joy
against the stiffness in our bones

every day at the breakfast table
we bend our knees,
count down from three,
prepare once more to spring
     out into life.