Soap Bubbles

Once upon a time

There was a grandmother.

Betsy was her name.

She lived all alone

With Chicken,

Her kitty.

Everyday,

Rain or shine.

Betsy went for a ride.

She groomed herself,

And picked a salt & pepper Channel suit,

Daubed on some Mitsouko air,

Decked her head with a frumpy

White turban

With a tiny feather,

Right in front.

She felt elegant in tweed,

Crocodile shoulder bag,

Her favorite perfume

(a memoir of their home at Park Avenue),

An the delicate old-time hat

At Columbus Circle

She took the bus.

And grabbed a seat

Two rows from the driver.

She bobbed up and down her seat,

Each time the wheels

Tramped over a streetcar rail.

She did not care:

They were riding

And the city was a movie

Playing by her side

on the window screen.

A smile freshened face and eyes.

Timework softened its weight,

As Betsy renewed her dream:

an open window,

a sharp mind,

And the breeze so sweet,

Thoughts flared her back

To beloved people and places.

She looked at her fellow passengers,

Along the aisle.

The sharers of Betsy’s escapade

Wore long

Drawn in faces.

She felt sorry for them.

Softly, she opened a delicate purse.

Behind the zip-lock bag of the daily medication,

She sheltered her favorite kit.

With a twinkle, she grabbed it.

Through the straw

(dabbed into gluey water),

The lady blew dances

Into rainbow clear balls

To the children’s souls

Throughout the seats.

Inside the bus,

Puffs of air carried crystal lights.

Soap bubbles laughed,

Soared and loaded the vehicle.

The passengers left.

Betsy lived on.

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