The Bubble Lady

She appears before me, dressed in black,
A cap of indescribable oddness
Covering her head as though it was born there
Her presence announced long before
In a cloud of soap bubbles
That drift aimlessly down the street
Posing as the poet’s messengers

She holds out a small book, her picture on the cover
Poems she has written about the avenue
The souls that stumble there from block to block
Chanting, raving, ranting, sitting, washed unwashed
Attending to the never-ending routine of living
The warp and weft in the fabric of life

I will buy her description of my existence
For five dollars in return she gives me the book
So that 20 years from now
I can find it again and relive that life
Grieving for its disappearance
And grateful to be gone from it.