I am not too adventurous. I don't think I would voluntarily go ballooning. If the opportunity ever presented itself, I would need medication and alcohol to take advantage of it. But I can certainly admire the spectacle of other people taking to the heavens.
Saint Marty prefers to be a little more grounded than that.
My Vast Presumption
by: Molly Peacock
The balloon ride was his birthday present
three years ago. He never cashed the ticket,
I know, because periodically I'm sent
reminders in the mail. "I didn't take it,
not yet," he said for nearly a year. We don't
bring it up any more. I thought I'd try
a rescue, thought I should--the mire he was in,
his father, his job. Since we were kids, a lie
was a sin, still is. He's my favorite cousin.
I'd love to see him way up in the air
billowed over the farms below, the red stripes
teetering from cloud to cloud, from when to where,
far away from bleak here. "I'm not the type,"
he finally said from his own balloon,
never waving, since never leaving home,
the faintly hysterical first good-bye,
"See you again, soon!"
|Up, up, and away|