Funhouse

She practices the route each day at four,

or so she imagines

the face of the town clock having long since melted,

numbers running like mascara down pale cheeks.

Traversing the deserted stairwell,

its familiar air of urine and decay

as comfortable now as worn slippers,

she searches for evidence of change that never comes.

Perched on the rooftop she dangles

slowly rotting limbs over sixteen storey height

and calmly surveys this mockery of a town

with its roads and schools

and warm spring breeze

as though someone left the oven door ajar

She ponders how easy it might be

to end it now

to step effortlessly into space

Like sliding down the Drop-slide

in the Fun House on the pier,

She remembers the sensation of

polished wood cool beneath her legs

heart hammering at the drop below,

willing herself to just let go …

She practices the route each day at four

with fire drill precision

Reviews

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~ brilliantly written... oh, i cannot tell you how much i relate to this piece... i remember the time when i was practicing this drill... i cannot tell you the number of terraces i've been to... and every time... just one thought stopped me... about how my brother would ensure that my soul-mate was arrested for abetting... (out of spite -- my brother is capable of severely hostile emotions)... ~ the larger issue is that society just doesn't provide the support or conversations needed for people who feel like "letting go"... oh, it's so tough when one is in that space in one's head...