I was prepared. I had marked all the locations of the local mango trees, had memorized the route. I had a bag for the fallen fruit, light clothing that would dry quickly, because even though it was hot, the day was shot with sun showers— prime conditions for rainbows. There was an extra set of clothes in my waterproof backpack, just in case the rain got too heavy during my fruit gathering.
With all these things in readiness, I went out the door, turned the lock, and shut it behind me. Cell phone: check. Wallet: check. Keys: oh wait.
There is only one door to my apartment. There are two windows. The window into my bathroom is in my neighbor’s back yard. The other window was there next to the door. It has two panels. One, which I had just locked and held my entire collection of Poetry magazine on the sill, and the other which held my A/C unit. The locked panel wouldn’t budge… but the wall banger’s panel? It lifted right up. Suddenly, I felt very secure.
It was a small matter then to reach over and unlatch the other panel. Then I faced my neat row of Poetry magazine, 1979 to present, all standing elbow to elbow in a chronological progression. The window didn’t lift that high.
Okay, then. I clambered onto the outside sill, and assessed my entry. My bed was just below. One flying leap: if I dove through like a tiger through a flaming hoop, I could land on my bed without disturbing my collection. Okay.
It was ready, steady, go!
I was on my back. I was on my bed. I was under a pile of books and paper, vaguely dazed from the force of Poetry to my head. But I was inside!