My neighbor curates inflatables
as one might prints or vases,
their yard a cabinet of curiosities
for every season—
Eggs and bunnies at Easter,
Uncle Sam and Old Glory come July,
Ghosts and ghouls in October,
The entire North Pole for Christmas.
I am perpetually annoyed as tubes
and pumps bring their grinning forms to life,
swaying and pulsing garish lights
late into the night.
Only in their deflated state,
a graveyard of spent cheer,
do I feel any kinship;
for I too know what it is to have
the wind knocked out, to be brought
low to the ground, only to flip
a switch the next day, to smile
and wave as if all is okay.
Kellie Brown is a violinist, conductor, and music educator. As a writer and poet, she explores themes of place, material culture, and healing journeys. Her words have appeared in Writerly, Amethyst Review, Psaltery & Lyre, Galway Review, and others.