Man on the Eleventh Floor

Man on the Eleventh Floor

A man killed himself
today. I didn’t try to
stop him. I watched him
climb onto the ledge
outside his window. And
I mimicked his movements
as I stood below, a mime
in the tragedy of his life. When
he began to move along
in the shadows, trying to
escape the light of the moon,
I only moved to follow, thinking
how it would be to swim in
his eyes, the dark pools of sadness.
Held me magnetized, the sadness
in his eyes but still I didn’t try
to stop him. There was no logical
reason to explain the slow build
of anger I felt inside when I looked
into his eyes. Angry bile rose up
in me and drowned all the words
I could think to say, to stop him.
I swallowed my anger and turned
and walked away. A man killed
himself today. And nobody knows
why. I didn’t try to talk him out
of it and I didn’t stop to cry when
I knew he had stepped out on the
wings of a prayer unsaid, thinking
I had wanted to stop him when
all I had wanted was to pass by.

 

I can’t really explain the inspiration or motivation for why I composed this poem. I took a nap this afternoon and when I woke up, I had this image of a man standing on a ledge. I picked up my notebook and started to write. Right before I fell asleep, I do remember thinking, I’m wasting my time writing. No one wants to read my stuff. (Yeah, that old woe is me angst of a writer) But I don’t think the image had anything to do with that. Besides I immediately recognized that thought for what it is and I shoved it out of my mind.

One of my favorite stories to teach my tenth graders is Contents of a Dead Man’s Pocket by Jack Finney. But, of course, the main character in that story is not trying to kill himself. And he’s not on the eleventh floor. Eleven, in my mind, is actually symbolic of birth because it’s my birth date. The speaker in the poem seems to be experiencing a type of new birth, while the man she is watching is experiencing the end of his life – by his own actions.

I don’t know what inspired the poem, but there it is. I’m off to do some writing now, and when I’m done, I’ll reward myself with a few more pages of Carrie by Stephen King. This is my first time reading it. I haven’t seen the movie either, at least not recently. I’m enjoying it. I’ve read more than half of the book today alone. But, in order to be able to read some more, I have to do some writing.

Later peeps!

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

 

*Photo courtesy of Blue-Eyed-Girl from deviantart.com