It was only eight years of hot air
that I finally had your permission
In some numbered balloon inflated with law and shame,
you reserved me for another three
some Hancocks, convincing frailty,
and a pulled paracord.
I served tea while you’d study,
brushed your hair after you’d bathe,
and hovered adoringly in wait
just a whisper away.
And that’s what I remember
when I’m free in the fall.
But you didn’t let go, really.
I never know where you’ll be
And I can’t see you from this height.
You’d sneer if I dove a thousand feet when
You decide or devise to get out for the night.
This is exactly what you wanted.
Just three more years.
Just three more years in Newtonian law.
Just three more years of this distant tether.
to stay alive
Until I’m free in the fall.