Jimmy Pappas

How To Fly Off a Twenty-Story Balcony Without Really Trying 

I grip the railing with my hands or I will climb over and fly.
I spread out my feet, keep them flat on the ground for fear
I will lift the right one and climb over. Afraid of heights, man?
You’re grabbing on like a race car driver at the finish line.

I tell him to fuck off. He could never fly. Men like him drive
the California coastal highway south to north to avoid the edge.
Not me. I drove towards LA with a two-hundred-foot drop
beckoning to me the whole way. I wanted to swerve over.

My passenger almost wet her pants. She could never fly either.
It takes a certain boldness to want to go over, to yearn for it,
to feel the pull of it, to appreciate the incredible beauty of it.
I have to push backwards now, like a man on a ship in choppy

waters. I steady myself as I stumble to the sliding door, squeeze
the panel, and pull. It’s stuck so I have to bang on it. Easy, Dude.
Just flip the latch, see? I throw it open and rush in to the farthest
point, my back to the balcony. It is better to not listen to its call.

I sit on a chair, slam my knees together with my hands between them.
I focus on my legs and ignore the others. None of them could ever fly.
I am the only one who knows how to do it right, how to enjoy it.
There are so many ways to fly.