“I hate balloons,”
The child said, and I nearly told him
But then thought of a time when I, much younger then,
Insisted that I didn’t like daffodils
And an older gentleman told me
Burying the conversation in a shallow grave.
So I settled on the other word
The one which, every year, grows harder to roll off the tongue
And asked the boy,
Guessing he’d once been startled by a premature detonation
Or he couldn’t stand the screeches they make
When you clutch them too tight
But his reasoning surprised me,
In its simplicity and apparent incorrectness,
As he informed me,
“Because balloons are always blue.”
I glanced at the balloon in my hand
The one I was holding for a ladyfriend
Who, at the time, I believed to be a woman worth holding balloons for
And saw that it was, indeed, blue.
Nonetheless, his logic seemed wanting.
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