There is a part of a person’s

Helium filled thinking machine

That swells even rounder

With the knowledge of

Sincerity and faith

And although quiet humming

And fingertips on the bloated

Latex of the ballooned

Face where eye meets

Jaw can create

The moment

Of laughter, the purest of thought,

It’s the mention of the fairies

That play by the brook and

An imagination filled with

Plump spiders and laughing

Farm animals that slowly,

Daintily place a paw (hoof, skin)

Along the etched lines of

Age and wonder, that remind us

Children that everyone just

May be hanging on

By a piece of thread

From their mother’s inherited

Sewing kit. From generation

To generation we live the

Cycle of sewing and ripping

and breaking and repairing.

Maybe, everyone needs a stop watch

That stops time rather than tells it. Maybe,

somewhere in the distance,

A small MOOSH can be heard as

The helium mingles and chats with

Carbon Dioxide and Oxygen.