You're leaving home

I was pressing your parachute  
with a travel iron  
when the wind took you,  
scattering a trail of books,  
pizza boxes and the contents  
of a bedroom floor, but for what?
a debt the size of my first house.  
Your prize, a zero hour contract  
and three years to grow a beard.  

I wonder will your canopy ever fill  
enough so you can see  
through the fringe flicked pout  
to a landing spot,  
maybe a student’s tower block,  
a pupa cocooned, changing inside,  
to whatever it wants to be.  
You still have the key.