The Mother’s Loathing of Balloons

How the children plead

At first sight—

I hate how nearly

Always I

At first say no,

And then comply.

(Soon, soon

They will grow bored

Clutching your

Over the moon,

Lighter-than-air,

Should you come home,

They’d cease to care—

Who tugs you through

The front door

On a leash, won’t want you

Anymore

And will forget you

On the ceiling—

Admittedly,

A giddy feeling—

Later to find you,

Puckered, small,

Crouching low

Against the wall.

O thin-of-skin

And fit to burst,

Who wants you worst.

Your forebear was

The sack of the winds,

The boon that gives

And then rescinds,

Containing nothing

But the force

That blows everyone

Off course.

Once possessed,

Your one chore done,

You float like happiness

To the sun,

Untethered afternoon,

Unkind,

Marooning all

You’ve left behind:

Their tinfoil tears,

Their plastic cries,

Their wheedling

And moot goodbyes,

You shrug them off—

You do not heed—

O loose bloom

             With no root

                              No seed.