Hot Air, Balloon

Best when spoken aloud.


Hot Air, Balloon

The hot air balloon kept rising.
I sat there surmising, devising – a device that keeps on surprising. It floated up, up on the horizon.
I was driving. Driving away from the skies and
at the window I said I would like fries and –
fries and a milkshake. They told me it would be 4.50 and how long it would take.
It was six in the morning and I was wide awake, and I could not shake the image, would not fake it wasn’t plaguing my eyelids at the line of scrimmage.

Drive – five, four-fifty, three, two, one.
There it was again, in the rising sun. Orange and red and shades of yellow.
Seared on my retinas as loud as a shout – or bellow, below.
I couldn’t tell though. The warm air dwindling is kindling a memory of something unforgiving. It could be
the reason I’m living.

How does it rise, before my eyes?
I guess and guess with so many tries. But I sip my shake and eat my fries, see ordinary things
with my ordinary eyes, and as that balloon continues to rise
I can’t help but think my whole life I’ve been feeding myself –
lies. It flies. Up with the birds, leaving me at a loss for words.

It hurts. This wordlessness, it skirts – around the corners of my vision, a shadowy incision
I cannot feign that I’ve been so blind to the sun and the rain.
Orange and red and shadows of yellow. In my head I’m far from mellow so
to keep sane I keep my eyes on the road, go where I’m told – and
think of the lies – look, in my happy meal I found a prize.

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