Balloonfest ‘86

Our intentions were good,

they were pure,

all we wanted was

to put a smile on your face.

If only.

A million and a half balloons,

we thought,

would do the trick.

We let it all go

in public square,

never to return.

If only.

Our best laid plans

blew away

with a strong gust.

Crappy weather

brought the launch down,

but our spirits were still high.

Then came news

of a hail of balloons

interfering and inconveniencing.

We wanted to bring more color

to the people of Cleveland,

and they ended up surrounded

by it.

It didn’t have to be

like this.

I brush aside the falling orbs,

as they pile up, and cascade off of roofs.

They float placidly on Lake Erie

unaware of the chaos they’ve caused,

but I know it all too well.

If only.

Chrome

Rows upon rows

of identical 3-bedroom homes

say “success,”

but where are all the

happy families?

Wrought-iron statues

depicting long-dead

historical figures

say “tradition,”

but what happened

to all the sculptors

and scholars?

An assembly line of shining,

suped-up cars —

plastic fenders

sprayed with glinting chromium

paint says “progress,”

but what have we

left behind?

A wide-open field

of gleaming

gilded lilies swaying

in the breeze

says “prosperity,”

but where did all the food go?

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