The would-be suicide takes a bottle of pills
and immediately throws up. He tries
to hang himself but gets his arm caught
in the noose. He tries to throw himself
under a subway but misses the last train.
He walks home. It is raining. He catches a cold
And dies. Once in heaven it is no better.
He mops the marble staircase and accidentally
jams his foot in the pail. All his harp strings
break. His halo slips down over his neck
and nearly chokes him. Why is he here?
demands one of the noble dead, an archbishop
or general, a leader of men: If a loser
like that can enter heaven, then how is it
an honor for us to be here as well—
those of us who are totally deserving?
But the would-be suicide knows none of this.
In the evening, he returns to his little cloud house
and watches the sun set over the planet Earth.
He stares down at the cities filled with people
and thinks how sad it is that they should
rush backwards and forwards as if they had
some great destination when their only
destination is death itself—a place
to be reached by sitting as well as running.
He thinks about his own life with its
betrayals and disappointments. Regret, regret—
how he never made a softball team, how his
favorite shirts always shrank in the wash.
His eyes moisten and he sheds a few tears, but
secretly, because in heaven crying is forbidden.
Still, the tears tumble down through all those layers
of blue sky and strike a salesman rushing
between Point A and Point B. The salesman slips,
staggers, and stops as if slapped in the face.
People on the street think he’s crazy or drunk.
Why am I selling ten thousand ballpoint pens?
he asks himself. Suddenly his only wish is to
dance the tango. He sees how the setting sun
caresses the cold faces of the buildings.
He sees a beautiful woman and desperately wants
to ask her to stroll in the park. Maybe he will
kiss her cheek; maybe she will love him back.
You maniac, she tells him, didn’t you know
I was only waiting for you to ask me?
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