so that it still casts the same
impressive shadow
on the easily awed onlookers
who throng in wet clumps
below it.
And around his torso he can feel
the cold fingers digging their
jagged nails into his reflexively
clenching rib cage,
reminding him that the day
is approaching
when the last of the gas
will sputter out
and his altitude
will dip low enough
for all the rubes
to get a good look at him,
and either lynch him,
laugh at him,
or simply bury his
comically withered
body.
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