I form them by dipping the plastic stem’s
round end—like a lens-less magnifying
glass—into the soapy solution, skim
its surface, raise the foamy blowing ring
near my puckered lips, whishing out warm breath,
send transparent spheres—sometimes small as golf
balls, often wide as classroom globes or wreaths
at Christmas (rarely melded pairs set off
by membranes, torus-shaped), like clear jewels
glistening from my window’s light—floating
through my room, reflective orbs to fuel
daydreams: alien airlifts, or bloating
bosses drifting away. Then truth. I stare
as each frail planet quivers, bursts in air.
Roger Armbrust
January 1, 2008
