The man has a heart like a kite and he knows it, knows it’s a bad idea.
For one thing, the wind keeps pushing him around, wheeling him in spirals,
lifting him halfway to Venus, then watching him drop.
He’s sick of crash landings, fed up with hanging upside down in trees,
a mouth full of feathers and twigs in his nose.
But don’t ask what I think, I’m the same way.
I won’t advise him to grab more gravity, won’t offer him bowls of stone soup
What good is a kite in the garage?
Suppose he breaks his neck next time.
No one’s impressed by caution, or sprawls on the couch reading books about it.
Or goes to the park with a rock on the end of a string.
by Rob Carney