The Balloon Man

By Fatima Mackizadeh

I marched the lengthy road, on that sunny Sunday,

when I was seventeen,

bright yellow rays bouncing off the asphalt.

Green trees were few, grey concrete in view.

Perspiration poured, permeating my pores.

If I could, I would toss my hijab

I sweltered in the sun, remembering my loved one.

A bubble of colours hopped in my periphery

My eyes fell on the balloons and the lonesome man, under the banyan

He stared, I glared, safe in my black niqaab

I took in his orange shirt & shimmering violet pants,

red skull cap, stuck to his scalp,

and the wizened brown skin of the old, old balloon man.

Intrigued I pulled out a tenner,

and thrust it at him, he offered a blue

I declined, and walked on in the sunshine,

with a secret smile.

By Fatima Mackizadeh