More than five rugby teams’ worth of men,
every week, dead by their own hands,
young men mostly, three times as many men as women,
nearly 6000 a year, 60,000 over a decade and….
rising.

Using the traditional routes to oblivion — 
hanging from a tree, opening the arteries, being free with the pills
a closed garage and exhaust fumes,
jumping off high-rise flats, bridges, cheap thrills…but…
With no turning back. No second chance.
Sometimes with notes, often with not.

This virus, this epidemic, this plague,
this destroyer-of-families, goes mostly unnoticed.
we’re all busy and…anyway…sotto voce…
"after all they’re mostly white, working class males
not the best qualified for life in our society.
The devil take the hindmost and all that.
And anyway didn’t Mrs T tell us
there is no such thing as society — greed is good — all that."

These rough lads have their uses,
you know the sort, the sort we rely on in war.
the unsung heroes. That sort.
Those dragged up in ‘care’,
those constantly neglected over-represented.
those hurt easily who never show it — 
they too, vastly over — represented amongst the dead
Those who are inarticulate, autistic, bullied — 
all these over-represented too.

And every one precious,
And every one a miracle of love,
And every one in need of a helping hand.
Including me.