Why didn’t I just pop it?
3 words from a child seem simple enough.
But behind them, at parade, they struck a bit gruff.
The youth was the one who penned them, for sure!
And doubtless, she hoped it for me, a quick cure.
But a surgeon for language, and an addict at heart.
I ripped in my mind her balloon glee apart.
The first word on the table, so “Jesus” it be.
Who was this Jesus, or at least who to me?
Did we pronounce it Haysooose, or YayShoooo, or EeaaaSoooo?
Or was it just GeeeeeeSussssss like they say at church zoo?
And were they saying only He, only Him was my lover?
And that all other “would be’s” were just users undercover?
And what of this love, quite a word that one be?
Was it something like like, or was it much stronger tea?
Must you die to express it, hang your arms on a cross?
Could it only be measured if you experienced great loss?
And didn’t I get to be an arbiter of it’s door?
Or must the beloved just receive this love’s pour?
And lastly the “you” on her rubberized bubble.
Most likely the “you” was the whole bit of trouble.
How did she know, her balloon and her father?
If I was among those who Heaven meant to bother?
For we’d never met, neither me and that duo.
And to hit me with that load was no soft little pillow.
They knew nothing of my past, no not either my present.
They could not begin to see how I love or yet resent.
They did not know the deeds in my shadow.
They certainly felt not the tight edge of my battle.
And yet their balloon, it floated lightly above earth.
And I know it was meant to somehow hope me with some mirth.
I do not resent them — or maybe I do.
It’s just I don’t know how to dissolve on my heart this hot glue. . .