By Daniel Romo
I float over the city while holding a bouquet of balloons. Hands grasping ribbons and fragments of sky. A birdseye view of domesticity. Rooftops lose their shape and resemble outstretched angles. Busy streets become nothing more than intersecting lines. I soar over neighbors’ backyards and applaud the consistency of their landscape. Uniformed shrubbery improving property values. Pretty little bushes behaving like pretty little bushes. Yet I pity the residents. Self-contained in crown molding-nine-to-five lives, never to taste the origin of clouds. Feet planted in suburbs they’re destined to die in. It starts to rain, but not even the threat of lightning striking me down can ground me. I face droplets, head-on, knowing there is not enough water to drown in.