(This is about the man who had my position at Ramkamhaeng before me. The “mysterious death of J.M.” )
The man who came before me like a bird
Flew briefly, in the tropic air, the birds hushed by the hour.
He landed hard, as he was not accomplished as a flier,
He may have died without a thought, but rather
I am sure that he thought quickly of his situation,
Be that as it may, for no one knows for sure but he.
He loved not wisely, neither well, but loved
‘Neath tropic skies, received what was denied him
In the country of his birth, denied by diffidence and shame,
Until he broke out of his life, and took a chance,
A chance that took him to his ruin, by whose hand I cannot say,
And only he could tell us now if it was worth it,
Worth the price that he has paid, the price he has paid for years of love,
After a fashion, fueled by cash, five long years
In which to make up for lost time,
To catch up with his heart’s desire,
And I for one, I hope he made it,
Hope with all my heart that he was happy,
Briefly, before he crashed.
I ask by training many questions,
Ask them to myself, and wonder as to circumstance,
I, no believer any longer as to shear coincidence,
Nor having any longer any faith where lies the truth,
I see here little evidence, but what I see compels me
To believe that in those hearts, yes more than one,
Two, three or perhaps many, in those hearts a plan was made,
Not shared by all, not shared with the poor gentleman who came before
And thought he was a bird for fifteen seconds.
Policemen always ask some questions,
But their goal is always simpler than to simply seek the truth.
They seek to find a simple answer if they can,
An answer that will close the file and sooner all the better.
“He woke me,” she explained, “and then he told me that he wanted
Only death.” and she went on to say, he thereupon went to the balcony and jumped.
Was she who called the cops, but after five or seven minutes is my guess,
Enough time for her brother and his friends to get away.
Policemen closed the file that night: Suicide.
She was his wife, and named on some insurance,
She, half his age, her pictures show the hardness of her life.
It’s not for me to say, not charged with finding for the law or facts,
But I can see, the man who came before, who flew to death,
Has left behind a widow and her family, newly rich.
We cynics always follow money in these matters, sad but true,
The money leading often to the truth, at least the truth that passes for the truth.
The closest we can get, not being there.
No questions asked, nor anyone cared.
March 24, 2008, Seven a.m., got the idea at six: forty.