Cloud Walkers

by Robert Scotellaro

They ease from hot air balloons onto clouds like silk scarves slipped from a sofa. There is a family of them. There used to be twelve, but now there are nine. Too heavy a meal or lack of concentration and there is always a trapdoor waiting.

It is said, as infants, they could crawl over crumpled Christmas paper without making a sound — gliding across it like a breeze.

In an interview one of them, a wispy fellow in his forties, after a divorce, claimed gravity grew in him like a boulder too heavy to carry up. So, he waited, watching TV and drinking oxygen for years.

In an early issue of their in-house newsletter it is written: It is essential to learn the comfort of loose molecules. To wear the body like a few thin threads.

Once, when an elder was asked if he preferred cirrus over cumulus, he replied: “I prefer a cement walk after a heavy snow is cleared. Or the crunch of dry leaves underfoot in autumn — I’m retired.”

Robert Scotellaro‘s poetry and flash fiction have appeared in a variety of literary journals and anthologies, including Willows Wept Review, Clockwise Cat, mud luscious, The Laurel Review, Houston Literary Review, Red Rock Review, Fast Forward (Anthologies 2 & 3),Ghoti, Storyscape, Battered Suitcase, Boston Literary Magazine, Bent Pin Quarterly, and others. He is the author of several literary books and chapbooks, and the recipient of Zone 3’s Rainmaker Award in Poetry. Raised in Manhattan, he currently lives with his wife in California.

Back to Issue Seven: Spring 2010