Balloons

poetry

Photo by esraa gamal on Unsplash

Balloons  (Revised)

Chekhov was a doctor. 
He knew the human heart. 
And the red ripeness of cherries 
where the orchard was not. 
It starts as a Charley Horse.
Someone or something in the calf. 
It could be any leg.  Any horse.   
Any time.  A proof of existence.
A promise of happiness in the distance.
A blossoming balloon of helium pain.  
In bed.  Walking down the street.
I try to grab it.   Massage it.
It moves bigger in the thigh.
Then the groin. Just as the woman 
with the schnauzer passes by. 
Someone yelps.  Look! No hands!
In the classroom, it moves across 
my belly.  Slides up to my chest. 
I try hard to breathe.  De-de-
flate it. I turn to write on the 
board. Surely they are laughing.
Concentrate. Concen-on-trrrrr
on the present perfect.
Make it.  Ok, class.
Let’s makeee it. 
This is how we make it.
Perffffect. Pressssssent. 
Now.
He. She. It. 
Has made.
They havvvvvvvvvvvv
I-I-I-
It lands in my throat. 
This round jelly bulge.
I try to swallow and finagle. 
Swa-swa-llow.  It settles
on my right cheek.
I grab my face and 
quickly face them.
So, you got it?
No one seems to notice. 
No one seems to grasp.
They must have their own 
balloons to worry about.