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London bridges falling down,
Humpty Dumpty falling off,
Jack fell down and Jill came after,
and ring-around-the-rosie,
we all fall down,

except for the ones that are permanent fixtures
in front of the TV they don’t want to turn on
to disturb the 2 o’clock quiet,
and have nowhere to fall to except sofa cushions.

Teetering on the brink, fall, fall:
the blinking of orange digital numbers,
a countdown and my heart might beat in time,
my eyes open and close in rhythm with it
so it’s easier not to—
no sir, that sheen on my eyes is not from tears.
I don’t remember how to cry
and I don’t want to, I am not in this
for the instant gratification catharsis;

drinking in company is a party
and alone is alcoholism,
and crying alone is pathetic
but something we all do
because it costs too much
to pay for company in tears.

The birds outside the window are still chirping,
they should be asleep like me but
I never hear how happy bird cries are
like people say, I can hear the noise
that carries neither cheer nor desperation,
hear the echo of a hollow cry.