Balloons

I call myself “old” because I am past middle age
and feel every breath of it inflating me to breaking.
You say, “no, you’re not,” as if those facts were false.
I call myself “failure” because what I have broken,
let lapse, and left undone are ballooning so greatly
in all the rooms where I find myself
that there’s no room there for anything else. You say, “no,
you are no failure,” as if you cannot feel the balloon
continuing to inflate and crush everything. I call myself
“useless” because of all the utility I’ve lost recently
and all the half-started goals that will as a result
never even get to half-finished. You say, ” you are NOT
useless,” but what I have done lately looks like a scant pile
in a dirty corner you can’t even seen for the growing balloon
of everything else that I am and loathe myself for being.

I look at these words and see a decent explanation.
That, I suppose, is something. I look at you
and you look right back as if there is nothing between us
that’s ready to burst. That is something.
I look out the window and the walk is swept clear.
I did that, I remember. That is something.
It is something, I guess, that I can get past the fear
of a looming explosion and still look out the window.