Balloon Lands, No Sign of Boy

Such gentle landings aren't meant for boys,
Whom mischief tempts away to forests, streams,
Across cliffs, chasms and ravines, through storms
Of spears and poison arrows launched in stealth
From undiscovered others in some strange
Sad country with no boys of its own, where
The sky is always falling, and they run
Away from things like boys, who come to them
In silver ships on winds, like angry gods,
And after raging earthward disappear
like gods when they (so softly) touch the ground.


Feared lost in balloon, boy found at home

No bold, implausible adventure here,
Intrepid boy explorers spirited
Away by siren songs that only boys
Can hear. No tragedy of innocence.
Credulity mocked.  No Schrödinger's Boy, No.
None dead, and no survivors.  Nothing here
To see at all, and less than nothing — just
An empty old balloon there flaccid in
A field, and a boy throwing up live on
The Larry King Show. Nothing more than that.

Still,
The truth is harder than a tragedy,
without the solace of a broken dream.