Jumper

When they pulled him from the sea bed,
sticky with sand and sweat,
they’d asked son, why’d you jump?
He said two figures were watching him.
They wore capes and their heads
were rounded against the blazing sky,
marble-smooth.
He’d heard of types like these before,
they wanted him for their own.
He could hear the clang of coins
in pockets against the ocean winds.
They did not move. They only watched.
He had to jump before they pulled him
under their cloaks; folded dank and dark.
Jumper goes free, he told them.
Jumper gets the fishes in the sea.