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white balloon of pulse beats
its sluggish hops on March land
matted with half melted snow
freed from a nearby high rise balcony 
cut from its red and blue compatriots 
still hooked onto the railing
a matter of strings becoming frayed 

small white blimp
reacting to a wind that means much less to others
unsettling to think it can't find its mooring
its bustable skin
flimsy
like the shallow breath of an aged sleeper
how long before it flees to some kind of shelter

small white balloon 
soon to be picked up as litter
bouncing in its frailty
blow by blow
a swivel from side to side
and always
its sense of being   under seige

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