The Fieldstone Review

Living in a Bubble

by William Doreski

  Tycho is my favorite crater.
  Fifty-three miles wide, impressed
  in the southern lunar highlands.
  Its eject blankets a network
  of rays extended like arms
  to embrace us when we arrive.

  Yes, we’re going to live there
  in a large plastic air bubble
  with auxiliary bubble in case.
  We’ll have a perfect view of Earth
  in its agony, the seas rising
  to wash away the human stain.

  In downtown Hartford decades
  after Wallace Stevens left it,
  I heard the vacant storefronts
  cough like hopeless smokers,
  their ghosts unraveled, lying flat,
  the landlords reduced to ash.

  I heard the river of rivers
  snickering as incoming tide
  reversed its flow, threatening
  to overwhelm the weedy levees.
  I knew it was time to relocate
  to the surface of the moon

  where the windless light and dark
  would stifle the warp of time.
  Einstein didn’t think of that,
  although his antennae detected
  the slightest cosmic nuance.
  He would have thought the bubble

  of necessary air too large
  to transport. He didn’t think
  of running plastic tubing
  from Earth to inflate the bubble,
  which we’ll ship all folded up
  and erect upon arrival.

  You’ll like living in a bubble.
  You’ll find Tycho picturesque
  as the mountains of Japan.
  Let’s practice holding our breath
  and let’s save up for the spaceship
  that will free us from this planet

  of decrepitude, grief and decay.
  Soon enough the crunch will come,
  nuclear war and pestilence.
  But we’ll be off in a stink
  of blazing hydrogen, our last
  exclamation nailed to the sky.