Out of Touch Bubbles


We discovered.

There's a location,
we all know it,
Main Street America,
that place where
deals are consummated,
innocents made guilty,
trials court shams.

We learned.

This place of early starts,
schools short of everything;
lined paper scant,
pencils with erasers gone,
full-length crayons just history,
once chalk stubs, now nubs,
all while administrators ignore and laugh,
all the way to the bank.

We tried.

That place of the first job,
first date,
first car,
first seduction.

We tested.

Some found the glitter place
where 3-piece suits
came from Brooks Brothers,
not J.C. Penny,
where 2 martini lunches
boded well the norm,
trumping yesteryear's
Big Macs and cokes.

We joined.

Where going home
meant driver-driven,
doorman-opened,
gilded elevator ascension,
home of wrap-around glass,
marble floor supported,
sensory-indulgent décor,
programmed delusions,
where only one’s own voice is heard,
mirrored self-image as only reflection,
all while standing atop terraced view.

We looked out.

We looked skyward.

We looked down.

Seeing thirty-eight floors below,
everyday people,
those making possible our out-of-touch bubble,
this insulated veneer,
the platinum exterior,
fending off bad dreams.

Fortunately…

Some awaken from their fantasy stuper...

Realizing mistakes are often one’s buried card to

a winning epiphany.

Finally.