V - The mental bar is almost touching the ground.

This could be an affectation of pathos.

I shift my weight, rise to the surface and pull in my knees to my chest. I rest my chin on my crossed forearms and think for a few minutes about nothing in particular. Then I think about beer and decide I want to get shitty.

I steel myself for incremental movement and snake my arm over the side of the bath tub, armpit hugging the lip. My fingers swash the wavering light of warm kerosene and mingled gloaming. I find what I hope is a towel, but is really just my oxford and I dry my hands.

Reaching for my father's pocket watch, I grasp and pull on the encasement. The watch chain is drawn taut and snags on the the chair.

The filaments surrounding the push crown make a dry pop and give.

A momentary glint as my brass heirloom breaks off at the top and the watch bow falls into the darkness along with the chain.

Dammit.

IV - The mental bar is almost touching the ground.

But I don't.

A touch and a glance are nothing without intention or even a kiss.

The rustle of her jacket on my sleeve reminds me to slow my pace. We stop on the bridge and look at strange birds that resemble finches. The moon waxes this time of the month and the sun will set late in Copenhagen. I have jet lag and we kiss.

III - The mental bar is almost touching the ground.

We step off. Footsteps light and fast then heavy and slow.
My eyes to the the ground, I shrug and falter slightly on a loose cobblestone.

There is no right rhythm for this, I think to myself.

Satiric, sure.

A revolution and I may become independent, I think to myself.

She may not get the joke.

Not very funny, anyway. I never really studied. This gets me laughing and she cocks her head askew.

1830's? Revolution?

But, I don't say it. She won't get it.

I am a speck on "the Belgian window" and all I feel is a cool breeze and a sick joke.

Even the astronauts know where they're going.

II - The mental bar is almost touching the ground.

The man from Belgium knows me.

One sip had me under.
My bathtub was filled.
I could hear an accordion as I was lain submerged.

I thought about the wood of my floorboards
and then about how I needed more bread.

I knew I would surface soon and smoke a cigarette. And this cigarette will stain the longest fingers on my left and right hands. I switch hands often.

A listless gloss of remembrance washes over me and my mind goes to the yellow umbrella, her red scarf, the coffee she made and what she said.

Here we go.

I - The mental bar is almost touching the ground.

This man is a betrayed man and he feels lost.
This man is a betrayed man and he feels lost.

He wakes up angry these days. I don't know why, but he just does so why ask why? All of this, all of this, all of this was not supposed to happen to him. Ever. Over and over again. Like a mantra.

That's what he tells me, anyway. This was never supposed to happen to him.

And I know that, but see, that's what he says. Not to him and not like this. Again, that's what he says.

And I know that.

And I can see him from above, too. I can see it happening. This man below is me, but this man below is not truly me. Not really. He may walk like me and talk like me, but he is also lost.

Not like me.