The Man Who Plummeted Into Death In Room 12 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

We just got up
From the writhing -
We were hungover
Our worlds were spinning
In vertigo as she
Sings inside the bathroom
As we get ready
For an art exhibit
Where they are going to
Brandish my inamorata's
Esteemed caricatures;

I saw a man at the
Other side of the apartment
Holding a.44 at gunpoint
He was agitated, I can see
His hands tremble in fear
He cocked his gun but never
Pulled the trigger - he's waiting
For some kind of signal or maybe
Some kind of guilt
What he needs is some kind
Of belief or some kind of sense
Knocked into him and not a
Blind bullet to his temple.

"Darling, there's a man
Trying to kill himself at room 12."
I told my inamorata, as she
Was singing, slurring because
The liquor was still burning
Inside her throat and mine too.
"What, darling? " She said with askance.
I've never had too many
People believe in me,
But when I told her again
About what I saw and
How terrorized with shame
And void the man was,

A booming sound
Billowed across the apartment halls,
My inamorata, coiling my
Arm in fear as she shuddered,
I kissed her forehead and said,
"At long last, darling. I was right.
I was right."