Doppler Effect

It's a sunny afternoon outside,

the kind of sunny

that keeps buildings warm,

the lives within,

warm.

The kind of afternoons

paragraphs about hope

begin with.

Not scorched earth.

Not molten streets.

Just ambient enough

for lukewarm lives.

And yet,

on the ground floor

of a four-storeyed residence,

stands a man, 

his feet

three feet off the ground.

Hangs a man, 

tied to the ceiling

of his humility.

Apparently,

sunny afternoons

aren't warm enough

to keep

the cold decay within

from breathing.

Apparently,

clouded skies

and overcast existences

have never belonged

to the same weather.

And yet,

when the storm arrives,

we ask why the clouds didn't speak.

We offer umbrellas to people already underwater.

We say,

"I'm here if you need someone to talk to,"

as though silence

were merely a sentence

people forgot to finish.

As though

drowning begins

the moment

we notice it.

And yet,

the news will tell you tomorrow's weather,

the probability of rain,

the direction of storms,

the humidity in the air,

but never quite

the forecasts

of impending foreclosures.