Sick with the flu, all I can do
is watch bubbles wink at me
in a boiling pot of water
as I inhale steam in an attack
on the snot factory in my head.
The bubbles are very merry
dancing in a state of bliss.
A big bubble attracts others
who want to dance a Hora—
others line up on a Conga line
to snake around a bubbling floor.
A couple who think they’re the hoi polloi,
waltz around the perimeter of the pot
to the tune of the Blue Danube Waltz.
Other bubbles blush red when an Argentine
couple shock the bubbles in an erotic Tango
with their genitals practically turned inside out.
There are well-worn flat-chested ones
doing the Charleston and the Bunny-Hop.
Vibrant young Bobby-Soxers have a fling
at the Lindy to the music of “Take The A Train.”
Harlequin jokers do their own thing, whirling
and twirling in shenanigans all their own—
flips and dips rarely seen on a ballroom floor.
Witnessing the dance inspires me to do a soft-shoe
across the kitchen floor. I’m interrupted by my wife
who insists I consult my Doc to check for pneumonia
which I’ve had a few times before.
An epiphany strikes me in my post-nasal dripping head:
Whatever suffering I may endure, the music of the dance
makes it as tolerable as a visit to my mother-in- law.