Flu Me to You

I am a red biplane doing barrel rolls,
an old man blowing smoke from a bellows,
wrestling with a scarred plank
in a muddy hole, stuck but unstable.
Above me Egbert scowls and says he’ll go
to his beloved Morocco, Morocco.
It’s a little more industry based,
a little more spiritually enlightened,
like a parking lot after an earthquake,
rippled with ledges and shallow pools
where I can no longer find my little blue car.
Low houses and steep streets,
all off kilter yet not unfriendly
under white summer sky
that doesn’t feel quite safe. Lucky for me

Joy Limbo, amiable gymnastic champ, gives me a lift
to the Equitable Building. I glanced at her modest décolletage
and relaxed in the shotgun seat, strangely sure she was mine.
While I collected the prize trinkets from her mailbox
she bragged to her teammates that she was pregnant.
I spilled my coffee just like on TV.

In my fever I knew I had passed through
the membrane between real and realer.
Whew! I was free.

It was the season of paring back.
She was heroically slugging DayQuil as she led
the volunteer arborists in a high lift to limb
the willows. Sometimes Mary Janes
and pink ankle socks simply won’t do.

I had two tickets to the sunny terrace,
the looping shellac of the librarie en plein air
but it was raining, I was hungry
and I ate one in the lobby.

Always and forever changing
the characters of our passwords,
alphanumeric and otherwise,
two, three, four,
aren’t secure anymore,
nor can birthdays, children’s names,
parent’s names, nor especially our own names
remain the codes we live by.

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Sometimes I make bubbles in my mouth
but I don’t blow bubbles out.
Executive Director, Bubble Foundation