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In a parking lot off
High, a man walks with his head down
and his inner voice set to the maximum volume
allowed by law,
and he expands a problem
until it is beyond his skull size
and entering the atmosphere
He skips the cracks
and jumps the rope
of his shoe laces
which don't stay tied
when he thinks certain
thoughts
her voice is travelling in the wind
at seven miles per
hour
and will soon be whispering upon him
but for now,
she's unthought of
by the underbows of lamps,
there are moths eager
to dance within the light
and somewhere close now,
there is a memory floating
in starshine
but the man,
now skipping a beat of unrhythms
over sidewalks edges,
is somewhere in the middle of a bubble
which is almost to that glass fragile moment
when it tears and slings everywhich way-
something we know only as a single act of popping
and dropping his hands to his sides,
out of his pockets
he is still
undergoing the same inquisition
in the form of mumbles
"why do
i
always seem to fail
when i
try
?"
then his teeth chatter
at the thought of being cold
and feeling old
given up
and he catches the eyes
of a woman and her husband
and her daughter
laughing and talking
about things not referenced
and barely meaningful
and snapped suddenly from slow motion
they blur,
already in their car and on their way
away from him and his shadow
and everything
in the significance
of his face
and he's still making eye contact
with her
and then the memory catches his breath
catches up to him
and a voice he knows
is lightly touching the tiny unseen hairs
on his neck
at the top of the last flight of stairs on the outside
of an apartment building
he stops to take in the beauty of black silence,
leaning and teetering
on the railing,
and girl sees him and thinks him crazy,
but only giggles her observation
to her unaware mother
and hand and hand they walk down the way and into a home
but he's balancing there,
knowing that falling is impossible
when you've tasted the possibility
and found it sweet
birds and bats down up, up down and up
altitudes and seemingly random and playful flight paths
over heads below
a rushing commotion of cars
and
a man pulling back from the edge,
smiling so warmly
so much very!
living is good
within
our ghost, he is
sysiphus spilling over
the rock is paused
in tumbling downward
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