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