Over the street, the helium balloon
tied to Mr. Russell's crooked wall
turns her fat cheeked face around,
to frown down on a bed of weeds.
Throwing her head to the moon
with expert mock despair,
she hams it like an am-dram dame.
Once upon a time she had them.
She's strung out all the same, sinking
over days and soon to meet grit
on the freezing tarmacadam.
The streetlights, flickering lemons,
are sour critics of her last hurrah,
the driveways full of brainless clay,
the cars only cattle in the stalls.
A security light claps on, uncertain,
like the grand duke in the gods
who starts, snorting from a doze.
Night draws in, the final curtains
close, and there is no encore.
As she deflates, the flowers file
out of the street in rows.
The birthday girl spites it all
and turns up her sparkling nose.
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