HOW CAN IT BE
By Robert K. Johnson
On many days,
listening to concert music
sweep me forward
the way a surge of surf
carries its white ripples—
or laughing at a madcap movie’s
roller coaster plot—
or joining in the banter
lobbed back and forth
above restaurant plates
filled with succulent food—
I am a red balloon
bobbing in a spring breeze
and yet, even on nights
that follow these days,
waking up in a bed
surrounded by midnight,
I feel forest lost
and foodless
and hear
the heavy tread of sadness
approaching where I lie.
Copyright © 2015 by Robert K. Johnson.