What keeps the balloon so high
in corner of the drug store?
Twice weekly fill-ups. Maintenance.
But if you believe,
the energy from mirthful children,
and if you don't believe,
a part-timer's task every other Tuesday.
This repeats until the seal weakens
or a snag on a tine by the cigarettes
rips its chamber open.
It's cellophane is mirror,
a warped smile we left long behind us
in another drug store,
in another state.
It reflects all the same,
the balloon, maintained, and thought of
as a chore, a listless task task task.
When it dies, it is replaced,
and goes on being a distraction, a dumb thing.
