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