Balloon In The Rain

Dodging drops until it pops,

they try to beat it down.

Rise up ‘round the corner,

not a cloud is to be found.

Last Wednesday

I stopped by the river,

sat at my usual spot.

Riding for hours with rotting flowers

had made my sour blood clot.

Bitter the air,

frozen, your stare,

hating the wanton waste.

Can't take a break

from our mistake.

The cold can’t cleanse the taste.

Sitting halfway out,

lying on its side,

a bottle somehow unbroken,

is wedged in the icy tide.

Today it is resting,

today it's on top.

Tomorrow comes thaw

and the inevitable drop.

Poem copyright by Mar Startari-Stegall, 2005
Ink drawing by Mar Startari, 2019

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