Angel by John Dorroh
He jumped from his second-floor apartment
suspended for a millisecond in the cold fog,
thick with smoke from another winter fire.
“I’m addicted to resin,” he yelled
into the near-frozen ears of the paramedic.
We’re all addicted to our favorite resins,
taste buds titillated by molecules rolling like playful
balls across the bumpy, lumpy surfaces of pink tissue,
circuitous pathways, seeking completion for physiological
reactions, causing our brains to accept the inevitable
fact that were all whores for something: lemon curd,
small-batch bourbons, sexual escapades in the middle
of the afternoon with people we barely know, Van Camp’s
pork-and-beans, traveling through airports with small stashes
of edibles from Colorado dispensaries, our mothers’ chicken-
pot-pies, sunsets, and picking fights on Facebook with people
we’ve never met.
I wonder what his thoughts were on the way down, or if
he had thoughts. I won’t do the math involving the trajectory
because that would be callous, a bit cold, too calculated.
Not a long flight at all, with an incredibly accurate prediction
of possibilities for final outcomes.
This occurs more than we care to think about on cold winter
nights on the outskirts of cities, on quiet streets like Elderberry
and Quince, to disappearing ranch homes, dilapidated apartments
with shoddy wiring attached haphazardly to wobbly three-legged
©2018 John Dorroh
Whether John Dorroh taught high school science is still up for grabs. However, he did manage to show up every morning for a few decades with a thermos of coffee and at least two lesson plans. His work has appeared in Dime Show Review, Tuck, Piker Press, Red Dirt Press, Indigent Press, Red Fez, Event Horizon, and several others. He also writes short fiction and the occasional rant.