Lift Us Up

Why can’t I take helium seriously? 

Is it the way we contain it, in polka dots at the fair, 

the way it beats latex with a stretch, the way 

when inhaling it, you talk like Porky Pig, 

its tendency to personify Spiderman, or the fullest self 

of Woody Woodpecker, Popeye, or Thanksgiving Day itself? 

Could it be the image of a muscular derrick twisting drill pipe 

down, down – a billion years back, and a surge way up  

the pipe, the cry, “Helium! Up she floats!” the echo of the gush, 

and up goes…the foreman’s hat 

No, wars are not fought over helium – almost 

When America boycotted it to the Nazis, they substituted safe  

helium with flammable hydrogen, and the Hindenburg 

was no Macy’s Day Parade 

I imagine an alternate 9/11:  

a frantic Mayor Giuliani screaming, “What do you mean the 

helicopters can’t land?” Someone wandering into  

City Hall – maybe a clown, maybe a balloon man from the park – 

He whispers something high-pitched into Rudy’s ear, and, with 

one phone call, the Goodyear Blimp fills its belly and  

alights from who knows where – maybe Lakehurst, New Jersey, 

whatever cost at the gas pump, and heads soaring over the Hudson,  

hovering above the doomed towers, and suddenly a gangplank 

appears, telescoping over the divide and just as an insurance man 

is about to make the leap, something breaks through the plate glass 

and picks up its load, floating far and away from 1.5 million tons 

of burning steel 

all in a giggly, high-pitched, playful voice of… 

helium