Shoot An Arrow In The Sky

the kind of day that people die on

partly cloudy like a crush of cauliflower scabbing the sky

it was a Friday

and hotter than Death Valley in July

a cop was at my door

giving it a good pounding

like some kind of a crazed bongo drummer

so I opened it

the cop was a heavyset woman with eyes like liver spots

she was looking for the old man who lived up on the 4^th floor

he was a painter and a writer of letters

I liked him

he used a typewriter and had an affinity for striped tube socks

it seems the cop was having a hard time locating him

and thought he might be dead up there

she’d rung his bell and knocked on his door

but didn’t want to break it in

as doors are hard things to replace

I told her I hadn’t seen him for a while

but that he was always kind to me

and would sometimes let me in the building

when I was too drunk to find my keys

the cop stared at me blankly

the odor coming off of her was not pleasant

something like hydrogen sulfide with a hint of rat piss

I held my breath

it was quite an awkward moment

then she gave me a scowl like burned meatloaf

and rumbled away

I shut the door

I was alone again

I was happy

the sky continued about its business

I cracked another beer

and contemplated the migrating patterns of birds

but it was too hot for thinking

so I sat there

sweating and staring out the window

drank the beer down

while remembering the kind old man on the 4^th floor

and wondered

if it were too hot of a day to die