Bubbles we once knew as round effervescences
blown through the air from children's wands,
or floating in profusion in bathtubs and soapy dishwater.
Now my car is my bubble, and I am inside it.
I wait for my groceries to be loaded into my car.
It’s quiet and stuffy in here.
But I am so lucky to be retired
and able to afford food.
This is my weekly outing except to buy something I can't get online,
or pick up carry-out dinners.
People stream in and out of the store with their bags and boxes of groceries.
No one talks to anyone unless it involves the purchases,
or they have come here together.
I see someone I might know under her mask but don’t talk to.
She doesn’t see me on the inside of my windshield.
Our lives are now in a bubble,
from our cars,
from our homes,
from our computers,
from our Netflix
from our minds in a bubble,
with thoughts ricocheting around.
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