7 of 8

I sit at my desk
staring into oblivion
of my silhouette on
the window.
the list on the table
keeps getting
longer
and longer
as days pass
then weeks
then months.
years.
 
time’s up.
 
my eyes blink
slowly
thinking hard for a reason
to be alive
again.
the dead-tired breaths
live on.
 
I think of the men
I’ve known
read about
who’ve been there
with no way out —
beaten up to their soul
fading away with
every breathe
striving while living
striving while walking
on their 23rd street in the
21st avenue in
the most ferocious of blizzards
while everyone else
stayed in &
watched
as they all got stuck
and fell seven times.
 
but sooner or later
they stood up eight
& walked
further than
anyone ever has.
 
everyone remembers the eighth.
 
some suicides are just never
recorded.
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