Jack jumped last night. We might have expected it had we not been so unsuspecting.
Those blue periods of his, I'm sure you've witnessed one, were walled in somewhat by the swelling tides of years and years and years. When they came, they were quelled by the very occasional red mark. These punctuations when they mercifully visited would open doors for him, in which our brother, neighbor, father discovered strange liquid tendencies to ailing strength. Too many blank-out nights could find him and his new battery bickering the old childhood verses. Too many four-of-the-clocks would cue the choragos his specter-critic's eye to deign a Plan on our friend's blue stationary.
A smile might have mailed it straight ahead.
Perhaps it was last week when the boat met the shore, some heinous delivery of packaged, patent-business sealed reformation, salvation. In the midst of his violet smile the cogent steam engine had a chute into which it might heartily crash. However it came remains to be seen. What we have all seen this morning remains our family's chief export.
Jack jumped last night. He ascended the hill with his red hands full of ****** punctuation marks, and he spouted full-rehearsed all those lines he'd learned in grade school. Like a prolix Gertrude complaining of her thirst. And with the singularity of purpose that haunts even the sharpest eyes, he completes the trek to his three-foot tall Kusinagara with his asthma wrapped around his neck.
Victory is a queer bird. Its song is never heard the whole way through.
He breathes in weightlessness, regains his bearing and waits for the lines to quiet down. No one should leave in the middle of a recitation, regardless of the quality. At last, "Richard Cory" reaches his terminal syllable and our dearest man searches for his place in the music. And it's just a minute, just a minute, just a minute, jumps.
Jack jumped last night Just as he said he would, And had we heard him say it We'd have thought "He could. He could."