"The Imagination of the Deflated Balloon"
The balloon lies marooned beside a stain
of a foot on an empty section of rug.
Smells of burned rubber where its tip
kissed a match. It had been so lonely
and the breeze, so gentle. The wind’s
hand lifted gracefully toward the flame,
warm but too warm. The balloon leaves
the moment to dream: it fills with air,
rises into the clouds. Grounded fog
depresses all it covers, but moving
through clouds has a holy chill.
The balloon populates the sky
with round bodies, remembers
the static lightning two bodies
can rub into being -- the shock
that erases the space between them.
Realizes movement isn’t as necessary
as thought, and so it inflates a friend
it knew when they clung to the same
lamp post, over the happy-birthday
sign and compared the size
of their shadows.
This balloon always darkened
the ground more than others.
At least it dreamed it that way.
© 2008 Hephaestes
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