And there are little blue bubbles
All around their heads.

At least,
That’s the way I see it.

He goes swizzing down the highway,
Weaving slightly,
Unaware,
Unaware,
That he is going 35 or 85 in a 65 zone.

Inside the little blue bubble,
Stocks are being bought and sold.
His head leans thoughtfully to the left
His left hand bracing the Nokia
And blocking his view of passing cars
And of the lushly verdant scenery that is
No doubt one reason he chose to live
In such an expensive place as Westchester.

Inside the little blue bubble,
Business is being transacted —
Serious stuff —
Money changes hands.
And hopefully, more than his fair share
Rubs off on his palms like dried green mold.
If enough little scraplings of green powder
Are heaped together,
The man in the little blue bubble can buy —
What?
Perhaps a better beeper, phone, or larger car.

In the park,
The children come and go,
Talking of Mike and Angelo;
Looking perhaps for the lame balloonman.
But the woman in the little blue bubble
Doesn’t see or hear them;
Turns her head and puts a finger in her ear,
The better to block the whiz of whirring skaters.
There’s a deal on the line.
There’s money to be made.
She doesn’t hear the bees whine,
Doesn’t feel the elm shade.

And the spring mischief in me paints a sudden vision:
I could go and tap her on the shoulder,
Dance her off her feet and back to life
In this sunny day park of now.
My eyes dart to her face, searching,
But she is lost —
Lost behind the foggy blue bubble.

“Before I built a wall…” I mutter
And stroll back slowly the way I came.

---

The above poem was originally written two weeks before 9/11/2001. It seems even more apropos now.

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