America
One million balloons released here
from different nooks of the sky,
all hoping, dreaming--visionaries.
At 13, I am about to ride my balloon,
one that I hope will take me away
to great heights, to fulfill my desires.
My balloon: soar into a clear sky!
Am I to know that the skies here
are competitive, stormy, perilous, sad?
I live for a year without any chairs.
I share a thin sleeping bag (the floor cold)
with my tired mother and brother.
I struggle to understand how twenty
dollars will sustain us this week.
I sprinkle some tears on the bare floor.
One million balloons--minus one.
I refuse now to fill mine, deflated,
with the same naivete as before.