DD Poem - A Divorced Dad Finds A Balloon

Hey.

It's my birthday.  And here's this week's Divorced Dad poem.

A Divorced Dad Finds a Balloon

Midtown on a Sunday morning

And you can hear the city holding its breath.

Hungover, the night prior worn itself to the dry nub.

He’s out to donate some old clothes, from his fatter self,

Before his chin grew hard and he stopped eating as much.

That done, he’s marking his way home,

And almost trips across a lost traveler, a semi-deflated

Mylar balloon.  Silver, with a rainbow and the words:
BIRTHDAY GIRL shining across the orb.

The string at the end dips and tests the concrete,

Like a cat searching for a final, clandestine place

To lie down, to offer death a present of itself.

He pauses.  Surely someone’s sad to have abandoned

This little treat, he thinks.   But, by the barely floating

Gumption inside the hobbling stranger, he knows

This can’t be true.  It was thrown away.  Thought useless.

And, with that resolution, he wraps the cord around his

Tawny knuckles, presses the film of the balloon to his cheek,

And they walk, together.  Side to side.

In an embrace.   It has been so long, so long,

Since he’s been held, by anyone, for any reason.

Balloon kisses him slightly with each step, as he cradles

The soft, tender undercarriage of its body.

It won’t be long.  He knows. A day, two. The air will cease.

He’ll wake up and find a shell lying on the floor by his black futon.

But now, this holy now, they are together.