Reminded of those cool tears that I cannot cry,
that,
if only they would,
could rinse the dirt and grime from this weary soul
which lies clenched beneath my breastbone;
the bright rubber birthday balloon too filled with tap water and yet,
miraculously maybe,
still refusing to pop as,
with a mischievous grin,
you deign to fling it form the terrace and watch the splash
from four stories up.
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1 comment:
Joanna,
Images. Stories behind stories. Makes me think of being in London with 18 athletes--the freetime sport for these guys in the big city? Yup, H20 balloons from the hotel windows. Poetry helps us connect...."We read to know we are not alone" (Shadowlands).
Best,
Prof Kent
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