My suicide (or Never to Return)

 I walk down to the station

 I go there every day

 But this is the last time.

 Today I go, 

 never to return.

 I walk through the same throngs

 that rush past every day

 scurrying to their offices

 their factories

 to meetings

 to hearings

 appointments for two o’clock sharp

 and births and deaths. 

 They will go on forever.

 Hurrying.

 Their numbers swelling

 every day.

 But not me, I won’t be there,

 I go today

 and will never return.

 No, I’m not dressed for this occasion,

 my last trip to the station.

 Couldn’t bear the thought 

 of all that messy blood

 mucking up anything better 

 than what I’ve got on.

  And I blend well

 with the others

 in their pretty clothes,

 Swinging, slinking,

 marching, lurching,

 flowing, going past.

  I’ve been through here

 before, you see.

 I go down to the station

 every day.

 And back.

 Used to, that is:

 today is the last time.

 Today I go,

 never to return. 

 If you climb the station bridge

 you’ll see a curious sight. 

 People stand there

 poised.

 Concentrating on the track below,

 they stand,

 poised.

 Ready to speed down the steep stairs

 and leap

 into the train of their choice. 

 I shall be poised elsewhere,

 waiting for the train of my choice.

 But how do I choose? 

 I climb down the platform

 onto the tracks 

 to the point where

 thousands cross every day.

 Cross: jostling, pushing,

 shoving, elbowing.

 But the time has passed 

 for me to be part 

 of that inelegant crowd.

  Today I stand

 on the track

 never to return. 

 I have nothing left to live for. 

 Today I shall let the train

 take me to my final destination. 

 My warm blood

 will bathe the tracks

 mixing

 with the mud and grime 

 and the secretions of some urban Indians.

 So I walk a little way down.

 And stretch out.

 Lie flat on the ground.

 And rest my neck

 on the cool, comforting steel 

 of the railway track.

 I close my eyes.

 Happy?

 No, not happy.

 But I am at peace.

 People climbing over the tracks

 climb over me.

 One more thing to step across.

 Or on: 

 someone steps on my finger.

 But I don’t care.

 that is the last time

 that anyone will ever step

 on my finger.

  The train is coming.

 The track vibrates

 against my cheek.

 Now it is sighted.

 People on the wrong side

 leap across in a

 tremendous

 hurry.

 I get trodded on

 badly.

 But never mind,

 I’ll survive.

 Or rather – I won’t, ha ha.

 And then I have a vision

 of something dropping through

 the floor of the train.

 Through a hole

 that was built there

    for people to drop 

    the wastes of their body.

    Those wastes

    are what will drop

    on my decapitated head.

    How undignified.

    How terribly undignified.   

    So I stand up

    and dust myself off.

    Perhaps, after all,

    I will return.

first appeared in Brown Critique Aug 1997