Balcony Poem by Charles Malcolm

Am I already dead.

A lone star
smoldering
out there.

Fading light
sealed by these thoughts and words.

Is it too late.

I can hear the hollow sound
of rubber and shin bone
bouncing off of the pipe.
I can feel the confusing tumble
and the air against my face.

Faster than this tequila.
Less painful than writing
about her.

I broke mirrors without thought
not long ago,
and I didn't think
they made thirteenth floors
anymore.

But here I am.