To the Man Who Makes the Mylar, To the Woman Who Makes the String

I wonder what time you start your day
and if you wear a uniform to work
is it hot on the factory floor
beneath unfiltered shafts of light
descending through unopened windows
or cool like wet concrete
a panting dog would lie on
to escape a too warm day

Do you make your lunch in the morning
side by side with your child's brown bag
or is there a cafeteria where coworkers gather
dreading the whistle blow
marking the start of the shift
that seems to come much too quick

Perhaps you do not think them useful
these things that you create each day
and so lament your life's work
manufacturing frivolous objects
that hold air and tether it
before the inevitable pop

But I am here to tell you
that the heart shaped pink balloon
with the shiny silver string
suspended at the intersection
of Santa Monica and Yale
saved my life today

As it inexplicably appeared
bobbing along the road
floating free like an apparition
no, like an invitation
to purge the gravel of disillusionment
settled deep within my belly
to wrap the silver string around my wrist
and let love lead me where it will