a slow rat-race with a drunk friend

He said, he is like summer -
dry, eclectic, lazy, intense.
I allowed him to have his say.
When my windowscape and my memory
had dulled, the rains had flooded my garden,
I remembered him again - crossing the highway
umbrella in hand.
He says, he is a pig
a glutton, a misunderstood person.
He will visit me every Saturday
and insist on sitting very close to me,
as if we were dear friends; he was falling apart,
and I was obliged to support him.
But, next time, I will ask him a question.
What was he thinking of,
when he freed my gas-balloons
into the cold winter wind,
the cold winter wind?