Those car sale balloons
were like hitchhikers
with a criminal sway,
begging to be noticed
or not looked away

from to the horizon,
where drivers were going;
it seemed only seeming,
but I would remember,
half thinking, half dreaming

of those balloons, fighting,
I swear, for my attention,
and I know they strove,
making the smallest spectacle,
reflecting on me as I drove

and thought of their owner,
a paint-knuckled dealer
with bucket-seat spine
knotting the string,
the colors ripe on the line

for birthday parties or other occasions,
but, high strung, they safely sailed,
their cause to be found in the given slack,
the salesman thinking, "Please,"
as he never had developed the knack

for selling cars or shoes or stocks;
he looked up and hoped again,
which I saw ahead, though he was behind,
he and the balloons, failing, floating,
above the highway, in one mind.