I read about a piano teacher
Who loved balloons so much
He filled his house
With thousands and thousands,
Said he'd cry whenever one popped. How silly
To love latex, air, How pathetic to fill a home
With the static cling of false friends
And the desire to hold a thing so close
That the friction of it stands your hair on end.
Imagine being unable to walk
From the bedroom to the bathroom
Without stepping on something you love.
How mad he must be, to replace
a face with these hovering, oblong ovals.
To watch their slow descent,
To resuscitate them until you're flushed
And gasping. How sad that everything, even time,
begins to look like the point of a pin.
