Two Years in the Life: My Time as Tacoma's Poet Laureate

THE IMPORTANCE OF BLOWING BUBBLES

I’m in the basement blowing bubbles
from an old pink bubble jar and hoop.

Upstairs the phone is ringing.
It is very important that I stay here
in the basement blowing bubbles.

A wise man once told me the universe is fueled
by the slight death of things.
I wasn’t surprised. This man had seen war.
I didn’t have the courage to offer an alternative explanation.
This man keeps an American flag in every room of his house.

There is one tiny window in my basement
covered in cobwebs and dust.
It lets in just enough light to show
each bubble while it lasts
wobbling from the hoop
a swirling sphere of pink and blue and clear
bobbing toward the old brick foundation where it bursts.

The man who told me how the universe is fueled was wise
but I never said I liked him.
Nevertheless, I wish he was here right now
listening to the silent room, my breath,
the plink of tiny drops of soap falling on the concrete floor.
I think it would give him peace.

The phone has stopped ringing
and begun again three times now.
Whoever is calling must really want to talk.