OLDGUY: SUPERHERO,

JUMPER

Oldguy finds himself
on a top ledge
of the 77-story
Chrysler Building,
where, after reviewing
dementia wards,
hospice vigils, and other
foreseeable futures,

he

jumps, recalling
how he used to soar
like a peregrine instead
of drop straight
down. The air’s chilly,
and the wind blows
his cape vertical.
He wonders if, barring
utter lights-out,
like when he had
his appendectomy,
the hereafter might
resemble some
despotic theme park,
streets of eye-stabbing
glitter, Teutonic
mountains and waterfalls,
choirs of muslin-clad
born-agains basking
in their last laugh

at doubters, crooning
“Kumbaya” ad infinitum
for their God, squatted
in his Barcalounger,
a capo in his man-cave.
He’s falling faster now,
approaching what’s
double-aptly called
“terminal velocity.” It’s hard
to see, or to hear anything
but the rush of wind.
He recalls a picture
in Life of a woman jumper,
young, dressed as if
for church, who slammed
face-up onto a Caddy roof.
Save for her foot askew
and a torn nylon, it looked
like an ad for Beautyrest.
Will he look so tranquil?
And what might he slam into?
He wonders whether he
missed seeing some
poor soul below, walking
to work or the mall.
He sees the headline:
“MOTHER KILLED
BY FALLING CODGER,”
then pulls out
the denture grapple,
sets it on Bungee,

and fires it at a passing
ledge. At the perigee,
it slingshots him back up
to a fifth-story window,
where he snatches
a glimpse of milky thigh
in a fitness class before he

yoyos back down
into the Big, sweet Apple,
savoring the bouquet
of exhaust fumes and sewer gas.