On Saturdays if the sun gets up / on the bright side of the bed / and the wind sleeps in a little
people at the protest in the park / blow bubbles – well, really they / conjure them into existence
with a pair of magic wants / lifting a thing sheet of soapy water / up into a friendly breeze
that puffs it into shapes – / cylinders waving like windsocks / on a runway or banners towed
by propellers of air where all / our best messages are written / in sunlight. Still others are
little, round cartoon captions / drifting over the crowd, miming / the story of the day: our spirits
wriggle free from the grasp / of authority, we fill our glasses / with effervescence and toast
the end of a dark age. No one / feels deflated when the bubbles / burst with a sudden splash
of iridescence like fireworks / at noon. They’re just showing us / how to celebrate a community
of belief while they plant / a kiss on the cheek of the future, / coaxing it back into a smile
__- Charles Brown, July 2026
