A man with a balloon for a brain

strums a beautiful myrtle guitar

singing a lost, Irish tune

which falls to the ground

and bursts a bubble.


Again.  Again.

He is a lover

who lost his mother

and everywhere he carries her,

like a cloud around his face.


Why is he afraid?

Why is he whittling wood?

Why is he making house

& running like a jackrabbit?


“You are a tornado,” he tells me,

“I need a soft breeze.”


“Fair enough, blue sky,

I think I made you up,”

says the rain.


And on and on and

the man with the balloon

for a brain grows older.


Every time a twister hits

he hears the hum of “maybe”

but his heart is an A-frame.


He built it, he knows what

it can stand.




Photo By: George