Bubbles

I blow on the bubble wand twenty-nine times
And each string of opalescent considerations
Floats out and away
And while some catch in updrafts
Others head over to the neighbor’s yard
With whom I have had a limited number of interactions
All terse
And I imagine a police car zipping up to the curb and being told
From the sidewalk
“Ma’am, we’ve gotten some complaints about bubbles.”
And I say
“If people have so little to worry about in their lives
That they have time to be concerned about
Barely soap
More air than substance
There but for the grace of God go them.”

Speaking of which
As I’m standing in the gray evening of
Twenty degrees below usual
Milkweed drifts in
Following the same path as the crystalline orbs
And I can’t tell the difference between them in the fading daylight
So I feel a bit better
Knowing I’m not the only one trying to have a little fun.