An old man, you could tell by his long thinning hair below his hat,
pulling and floating behind him, in shaking hands,
all of his life’s successes and failures. In readable bold print.
tightly holding the strings, he tugged all different sizes
of brightly colored balloons.
Strolling along streets, between alley ways every mid-day,
with a strong but timid pitch, would speak to himself.
Looking up at his balloons, “Free! Life’s balloons!
Pick a color! Go ahead, pick a size, and take one string,
anyone you please.” No one ever did.
Bits and pieces in the way he moved.
Slowly, with purpose, in a constant pursuit; holding his balloons.
Carrying a large black plastic handbag strapped between sagging breasts and wings,
an old Angel, dull Halo above short-cropped bluing grey hair,
walked briskly on the same street. Bulging almost begrudgingly,
with contents peeking in-between swinging striding elbows,
were things seldom humanly seen or recognized.
Frequently looking up the street with a jerk of her head
like a bird of prey, a determined hunter.
Shaking her head with disappointment, her eyes would fall with innocence at her feet.
She walks just after the sun comes up; her search begins after the dampness of dawn.
Looking for the old man. Always walking on the opposite side of the street
ready to cross if need be. Never stops looking. Never stops shaking her head.
Bits and pieces glittering on the needle she carries,
gripped with white knuckles in her stride.
Day of enlightenment almost caught up with the old man.
But, did not.
He was ambushed yesterday, with every balloon popped;
yet continues to walk in crushed cap, carrying one string over his shoulder
begging “Free sturdy string. Free well tugged twine.
Have this one, please take this one, I have had it for some time.”
Looking at bits and pieces, starfish,
Crabs and broken shells in a shallow