Under the Gallery's 100' ceiling
Calder's one-ton, motorless mobile,
twists and turns, manipulated
by an endless stream of visitors
as they pulse from nearby revolving doors.
Tourists idly chatter under his mobile,
their words a barrage of indifferent air,
with puffs here and puffs there, unaware.
Unaware of their puffs of influence.
It, like my small plastic imitation at home,
shifts its shape, helpless to the events around it;
no different from all the dandelion puffs in my backyard.
Gazing up, I sit as witness to sounds of air and watch
until, finally, I recognize—me
reacting to society's whims who tell me how to live.
Their indistinguishable voices filled my air
with puffs of:
and I understood—
unlike Calder's involuntary mobile,
unlike the dandelions in my backyard,
I have always had a choice.