September 2nd and already the air has turned
to chill. The tops of the neighbor’s bamboo trees
sway and dip
their leafy heads away and towards
each other—agreeing and disagreeing—
reminding me of the billowy
human-like balloons
erected at car dealerships
and one-day-blow-out-sales—faceless, limp
arms gesturing in futile attempts at flight.
The elongated head dipping dangerously
close to the ground
until forced air keels the figure up and proud again
for one heroic moment, only to collapse
back on itself—wasted, defeated—sad
giant staggerings, a waft of puppeteering.
Its quasi-human form an implication
to do what? Surrender your will? Give up now
and admit you are so much air
blown into a casing?
No less subject to the elements, no more swelling with hope
than the next enigmatic object.
You recognize the impulse—you’ve battled the burden
to remain
erect daily, quelled the desire to be
on the ground, flat-out, done in.
You’ve known for a while now—no matter how bright the sun
casts its face towards the shops and cars, how lovely the girls
appear in their summer dresses or how clear as light
the boys at the bus stop—it’s all amplitude
and impermanence—faltering in stages
like some fluttering icon
of intermittent optimism—flagging you down
along Highway 99.