If we start fogging our four windows,
One day soon- nine months or so,
All of our children will be storming the gates of
Heaven;
A womb of filigree and midnight spume,
You know the room, vertical underneath ceiling fans
And plastic stars and blue brooms-
I’ve laid you there and cleaned your flower with
My tongue,
And beat out a jingly tune on your petal soft drums:
Oh, I guess that was just what I was meant to dream
About doing to you,
Passed out in class, or fondly depriving some other
Boy’s father’s liquor cabinet when I was supposed
To be eating lunch:
Staring into your eyes instead of the instructor’s,
Drowning out any other lies;
But now there is only the static of a poorly received moon,
For aren’t you so busy living out your life in another
Man’s bright balloon;
And sometimes I see you go flying through the sky
Like a motion picture in a velvet room,
That I want to smoke you out of the sky and dropp you into
The crèche of aloe so near the passion play
With a slight rain coming down, that I would make you real
Enough, and plush and comfortable enough
To believe in you for always, even after school is such
A long ways over,
And you are floating in that lucky gentleman’s big balloon.
Floating On A Lucky Gentleman’s Balloon
Did you enjoy the the artible “Floating On A Lucky Gentleman’s Balloon” from Robert Rorabeck on OZOFE.COM? Do you know anyone who could enjoy it as much as you do? If so, don't hesitate to share this post to them and your other beloved ones.
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