Jack lacked a reason,
or perhaps lacking reason entirely
he found himself on a rooftop
littered with evidence of
his inexplicable failure to commit
at key points in his life.
Under the sky, burning hot with the gasses
produced by myriad prejudices and simple distastes,
he sweated a decision,
asked himself ten questions repeatedly,
with three question marks each,
as if he could text or telegraph himself into the future,
the after, the whatever.
This time he stepped up to bat,
decisions made in the past left passed,
determined to act,
but his heart wasn't in it after all.
Even the paramedics who covered his face
carried him off the roof
with a shade of disgustcalled orchid.