There . it . sat
unyielding, unswerving in
its definance against the air;
my balloon.
I painted it red
I, gathered up its edges where
the rope gingerly hangs on
I, blew, I threw, I even kicked
it a few times…
but still
it goes nowhere;
my balloon.
The people passing by are
starting to stare.
The boy on the see saw
the girl on the swing
even the mothers who usually
say nothing to me
are now intensely investigating
me;
my balloon.
I thought it’d be grand,
a design
to prevent storms from taking it
winds from breaking it
birds from popping it,
to make the world
see differently,
to convince the inconvincible
of my genius.
Every detail painstakingly thought
every solution and method
from wood to corrugated box
but lead just seemed the most
malleable and freeing.
Ancients used it in curses and
blessings, why even now it
protects from all kinds of il- ‘adiations
our scientific curiosities run us into,
so why not from other
‘nations of curiosities albeit
feathered and tempestuous in origin?
But, alas, here it sits, unwilling and un-obliging,
unwavering obtuse in its weightless
determination to not float, this
dripping in red acrylic and cotton;
my balloon.
{{Thank you to sonofwalt at dadpoet.wordpress.com/ . I think I am going to do a few more of these Cliche’ poems. 🙂 }}