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Sunday, August 31, 2014

DD Poem - A Divorced Dad Finds A Balloon

Hey.

It's my birthday.  And here's this week's Divorced Dad poem.




A Divorced Dad Finds a Balloon

Midtown on a Sunday morning
And you can hear the city holding its breath.
Hungover, the night prior worn itself to the dry nub.
He’s out to donate some old clothes, from his fatter self,
Before his chin grew hard and he stopped eating as much.
That done, he’s marking his way home,
And almost trips across a lost traveler, a semi-deflated
Mylar balloon.  Silver, with a rainbow and the words:
BIRTHDAY GIRL shining across the orb.

The string at the end dips and tests the concrete,
Like a cat searching for a final, clandestine place
To lie down, to offer death a present of itself.
He pauses.  Surely someone’s sad to have abandoned
This little treat, he thinks.   But, by the barely floating
Gumption inside the hobbling stranger, he knows
This can’t be true.  It was thrown away.  Thought useless.

And, with that resolution, he wraps the cord around his
Tawny knuckles, presses the film of the balloon to his cheek,
And they walk, together.  Side to side.
In an embrace.   It has been so long, so long,
Since he’s been held, by anyone, for any reason.
Balloon kisses him slightly with each step, as he cradles
The soft, tender undercarriage of its body.
It won’t be long.  He knows. A day, two. The air will cease.
He’ll wake up and find a shell lying on the floor by his black futon.

But now, this holy now, they are together.

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