Still Life with a Balloon

 

 

Returning memories?

No, at the time of death

I’d like to see lost objects

return instead.

 

Avalanches of gloves,

coats, suitcases, umbrellas—

come, and I’ll say at last:

What good’s all this?

 

Safety pins, two odd combs,

a paper rose, a knife,

some string—come, and I’ll say

at last: I haven’t missed you.

 

Please turn up, key, come out,

wherever you’ve been hiding,

in time for me to say:

You’ve gotten rusty, friend!

 

Downpours of affidavits,

permits and questionnaires,

rain down and I will say:

I see the sun behind you.

 

My watch, dropped in a river,

bob up and let me seize you—

then, face to face, I’ll say:

Your so-called time is up.

 

And lastly, toy balloon

once kidnapped by the wind—

come home, and I will say:

There are no children here.

 

Fly out the open window

and into the wide world;

let someone else shout “Look!”

and I will cry.