The boy with the couch and coffee tablehad recently been left.It came as a set, he said, She likedmidcentury modern, bought from Amazon.The table legs splayed out just like a foal’s,young and spindly—emulating, but onlyemulating, instability.Thirteen stories down, a jogger dodgedtectonic plates of concrete knocked askewalong the park, which stretched mutely towardthe horizon, the Arch a sterling threadplucked loose from the seam.Flush against the sliding door, I watchedthe goings-on while Neen talked down the price.I thought again, as I sometimes did while drivingdown Skinker toward the highway, of the boywho, years ago, high on coke or drunk and highon coke, had leapt or slipped from a balcony hereand died. It felt new, to be conjuring him from inside.The jogger’s feet ticked clockwise up the block.The concrete sopped up the sudden weight of hisliving, the intestinal weather and uneven stride.Beside a young, braced tree, a bottle of winehad bled arterial streams into the dirt.Act like you’re not sure about the furniture,Neena had coached me in the car, So he’ll go lower.How could he know what we wouldn’t leavewithout? We kept hidden, for now, that undergroundJonah idled in his cobalt Dodge, the bedempty, awaiting the symbolic remnantsof the poor guy’s empty bed, tires straddlingtwo spaces across the white line, andthe storied body in the mineral regionsbelow the rubber and cement, still falling.