The eleventh floor was always an escape

An answer to the everyday illusion and imprisonment

But it wasn’t the quickest way down

It was that open window

During that winter day in the middle of January

You could barely make out the Hudson River

Blossoms came early

We’d dodge the doctor’s orders

And cheek our medications

We’d joke about the lonely man who later died on the floor

And the guy that looked like Kramer who did the Thorazine shuffle

Or the teenager who constantly washed his hands over and over

It was just me, a Guy, and The King, and Little Rich with the plantains.

Betty caught me touching myself once while in the shower.

These are the things I remember.

That’s a lie.

I remember everything and a lot more than I’ll ever share with you

Because you are just a reader of words

Not a reader of my heart

© 2011 David Greg Harth

11.09.02.03:31:20@130BklynNYC