The Balloonist

I have tried.
I have shouldered leaf-blowers,
huffed sirocco, ignored her wildly mussed.
I have hurled javelins, arched lies true as arrows,
tried not to admire her weaving,
her light sleeping,
chin dimpled on my curtain rod.

I was once a man of resolve,
good at dismissing good-looking,
the perfect cowlick, life's skirt hitched up.
Now I open windows, clear the sills
of cactus and candles, rattle air as she enters,
tanked on all the world's deflated egos.

Last night in my coughing she flecked
me her name. I understood "Gondola."
It dropped into focus like a rope, a rooftop,
an astonished squirrel, like sandbags
exploding a neighbor's raucous stereo.

© Christian Simon