i'm there for you

as you have your nervous
breakdown and your fingers
dig into the edge
of the window sill outside,
sinking your long red nails
into the old soft
wood and your shoes have
found the brick lip to put
some weight onto, i hear a
baby crying in the other room,
not mine, but yours, and
i hear the shrill whistle
of water boiling in an old
tea kettle, and the tv on
as always to dr. phil.
and you want to let go,
but at the same time you
want to climb back in,
you have a book club meeting
tomorrow and you had some
very interesting things
to say about that new larson
book, the girl with the runny
tattoo. and as a crowd gathers
below you wish you hadn't
worn a dress, and perhaps had
on a nicer pair of underwear
and matching shoes, but i try
to cajol you back in with sweet
talk, while i stare at the fine
line of grey that's in your
black parted hair. a little
overdue with the dye job at
the hair cuttery, hon.
oh well. i hold out a bar
of godiva chocolate,
i show you a picture of a diamond
necklace from the sears catalogue.
i tell you that things will
get better, although i don't
believe that either.
i understand your plight.
your decision to hang out
the window trying to
decide which way to go.
the wind blows your hair,
and brushes up against
your skin beneath your
blouse, and you say, ahhh,
that feels good. pigeons
land on the sill to watch
while we wait for
the firemen to arrive
with a hook and ladder truck.
it still could go either
way. i make coffee
for everyone, regardless.