Poetry

Blue Cloud Balloon

Blue clouds tethered to an aching wrist

Slowed                 my                     pace,                   speech                 and                        mind.

Like a child’s balloon, this air filled anchor had me under it, aweigh!

An aging teenage man                          ­– world wary –

Confronted by the hangers and snarers of the

Scary, tearing, haring Northern Line suit-monsters and Central Line head-down shove-ers

Snagging on my anchor’s rope as men

To be, lovers to love. charred and burnt; still armed.

–  but this hawser digs and twists this raw wrist into a hook that cannot hold me.

then the cloud rained     – she held me –         my lake of tears.

this sobbing                             baby of six                        foot two                       

Can’t possibly                          be the lad                       that drives

 a car                                             and gives                        guidance

to                                                     friends                            ?