An Elegy For A Man Who Did Not Fly

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~ to Oriana

One after one after one

They walk by, some point and stare,
some walk anxiously, faster –

Only a big stain is left on the sidewalk
by the café where the body was
covered with yellow tarp, a pool of blood
near the head.

He was getting dressed – they said –
when he stepped off the roof
pulling his shirt down as he fell five stories,
without a sound.

They watched him
while eating breakfast muffins,
drinking lattes.

Fenced by a crime-scene tape
the body stayed there
long after lunch,
an empty sack.

They sat, yards away from a heap
of bones already falling apart,
dust to dust.

Indifference? Cruelty? How could they
swallow their neatly sliced tomatoes,
while blood rivulets poured
from under the tarp?

How could they think
near this immobile husk,
straight in the line of sight
towards the ocean?

One after one after one

The liquid mass of steel-grey waves,
washes ashore and recedes,
a heartbeat in meditation.

His heart stopped.
His spirit soars,
searching for home.

What was his life
before
he walked to the edge?

How tired he must have been.
How oblivious to the rhythm
of the undulating yes
tasted in every breath –

One after one after one – (C) 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk

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