Sliding a delicately tooled
revolver from a side
pocket of his tuxedo
he took his last meal
late one night
leaning backward
over his
penthouse balcony.
The updraft
held him floating
just below the railing
a few yards away
from the building
arms outstretched.
The next day
he was discovered
by his vacationing
neighbors’ live-in maid
who spoke no
English and could not use
her employer’s fancy
telephone and never
left the apartment
for fear of seeing
dead bodies
on the street.
And so it was
a traffic announcer
in a helicopter who
first reported the man
bobbing like a tourist
in the Dead Sea
during the morning
traffic report
and the radio station
told him to repeat it
every eleven minutes to
boost ratings.
When the police
finally broke
into his apartment
they gathered
on the balcony
their rolls of
yellow tape
useless under the
circumstances
and it was decided
after a few
head scratches and
mumbled words
of official
non sequiturs
to leave him there
a sort of
civic monument
a suitable
replacement for the
Statue of Liberty
a tribute
to the difficulty of
arriving
once one has
set sail.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
