A Strange Case Poem by Andrew Lee

I guessed, no one witnessed his leap of death.

No one saw his flailing arms and his trembling legs. No one heard the quivering scream and the thud of his rupturing ear-bones. Was there a cry of regret in the winds?

I must be wrong. The old crow saw something.

How? Because its grey skin changed colour, from patches of silvery grey to dark blue, and then from dark blue to deep purple and back to silvery grey. It kept changing colour when the shades of morning light warmed its diseased moles, its crop of dropping feathers and worn-out claws that curved inwards. And the breezes befriended it, ruffling and mending its broken wings and blunted beak.

The old crow chewed a grub and swallowed briskly. It gawked a few times, perched on a branch near the navel of an Angsana, perhaps seeing a different micro-cosmos in a gust of wind. Then its eyes gleamed, ready to morph into an owl with a human tongue.

I stared at the stiff, slender body. A young man in his mid-thirties, his slender arms, torso and thighs were positioned awkwardly in a tragic-comic Z-shape, like a twisted scarecrow in a starched, tight-fit 'costume'. It was lying near the rubbish chute of an old HDB flat in Ang Mo Kio, a busy cross point for pedestrians taking a short cut to the nearby eateries. If he wanted to achieve some degree of fame for his final act, he had chosen the right spot. The time was: 7.43 am on 12 August 2017.Twenty-five minutes later, more than a hundred people had gathered, some standing inside the void deck of the flat, some along the nearby pathways.

The body's ashen face was bent to the right, his neck slanted towards the ground, part of his facepressed against a puddle of blood, which was dark red. His right eye was closed while his left eye remained half-open, and its pupil seemed to move when dust motes came near to it. I must be seeing things.

Yes, I couldn't forget his 'costume'. A tuxedo, which looked grey and worn, made dusty by the ground. A woolly scarf was wrapped around his shoulders, which somehow suggested that he was attempting to touch the heaven with a daring leap. He wore black buckle ankle boots and an army leather belt that had weapons printed on it, with scrapes that gave it a vintage look. Further he wore a long, brownish wig, the type used by pub singers to signify their status as diehard fans of The Turn of the Screw.

His right hand clutched a painting close to his chest, a sort of collage which was gallery wrapped, about three feet by two. The right portion showed a black-and-white photo of Picasso's Geurnica, the left showed a photo of Dali's elongated Elephant. The centre resembled Jackson Pollock's drips, with Rothko's immersive colour planes on the flanks that were mixed with images of skinny figures smoking and drinking.

Another middle-aged man, in a blue shirt and brown pants, wearing sunglasses and holding a Samsung cell phone, waved his left arm in the air. Walking around the body, he repeated, 'Please don't call the police or ambulance. They're coming soon...'

The crowd continued to increase. Another ten minutes passed. The stiff body on the ground twitched, trembled and started to move. Our eyes narrowed as he sat up. After resting for a while, the man stood erect, took a bow and said, 'This is a performance seeking your big-hearted support. Please show your support by visiting my website rosenbergchong.wordpress.com and choose some of my paintings. Purchase above $100, free delivery... Thank you for your support. Please don't report to the police, but you can circulate this in YouTube and highlight my website. I need to pay my old parents' medical bills and support my child... '

The painter and his friend left, followed by the crow, his guardian angel in good and bad times. The crow shimmered with a coat of new feathers. The morning sun did it good.