Fire Escape

I want to tell you about the man standing 
on the third floor fire escape, staring through 
his round-rimmed glasses, through the window, 
in at me.

I am waiting for him to jump.

What will his body be like after sliding 
though through two floors of empty air?  
Will they bury it or burn it?  His cousins 
driving all-night from Utah to watch it happen, 
then all night home again to tell 
their families it was real.  Or will he lie, 
sexy and limp with his arms out-stretched, 
still alive, but like a just-crucified 
version of himself?  Or, more awful still, 
will he walk away, unscathed, leaving me 
the only witness to his misery?

This abyss is too easily discussed, to weep 
about the watery oatmeal our mothers made 
when we were children, to speak so earnestly 
about the holes in our socks and the wasted way 
we tie our shoes each day.

We know we are not as deranged as we think we are.  
We are not gods, and we are not humans.  
Our sadness is artificial, but it is beautiful.  
It is bits of broken mirror and spoons 
bent sideways using just our minds.  

We are not horses.
We are not heroes.
Our hair grows 
0.3mm per day, 
and still they say 
we are dead inside.