Crappy Poetry.

Scraping at bits of tin,
we want to believe so we don’t look --
just fall in.
It turns out they’re
a dime a dozen,
and we don’t even get the deposit back.
It was a day just like this when he left.

Has this always been tin?
He looks before he leaps,
and jumps in.

What I wanted to shout up towards the break-wall was,
send a rope;
not yourself.