Reposed upon the woven chaise beside
the pond, my father sits with open book.
His slicked-back hair and darkened lenses hide
pecuniary fears that hold and hook,
that hunt and haunt the world he built from scratch
with aching back and calloused hands, while I,
just five years old, beside him reach and catch
the fleeting bubbles gently floating by,
then leaning forward gently purse my lips
and blow into the plastic wand again.
Some bubbles carry off, while others dip
to meet their bursting fate upon the sand,
or vanish just as soon as they appear
as if to warn that summer’s end is near.