When younger, I thought bubbles
were like crystal balls. Each held
another dimension, a different future.
With each pop on tongue or asphalt,
another you disintegrates to soap.
Blame this fancy on Cinderella,
with her carmines and azures glossing
over stepmothers and mop water.
With one light skip into a sphere,
you could become a watercolorist,
a techno master, opera singer, or
gourd carver. With each cat swipe,
you returned as a divorce lawyer,
a mechanic, an administrative assistant.
My younger cousin couldn’t blow bubbles,
his lips to closely perched to wand,
juice dribbling cheeks. Our parents never tried.
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