I think I was on a balcony
by Michael Burkard
overlooking the whole thing.
"April Fool's Day"
No soon, no hard loan, no geometric woodwork
to make you feel at home. No soap, no anonymous
bourbon, no portrait or copy of a portrait painted
by some writer or star or family member or any
other-than-artist person. No short drop
(you were fifteen floors up), no secret way
out, no voice of self-hatred (which you are at least
used to). No past tense. Sometimes no tense at all.
Sometimes not even an all or nothing. Sometimes
not even a real estate dream, not even a frame,
not even a framework. A balcony but not a back
kitchen porch. A woman hanging out her laundry
but not hanging out. Railroad tracks and motor-
cycle gang around the corner but not a ticket
or a destination. Not even the sense of a weird
dead end. Not a lemon or a sun. No children.
No stories about children, no crooked arrow.
No ghost named Leslie or Vallejo. No C. No M.