Low Orbit

This restless woman walksback and forth, more like a hamsterrattling in a small wheelin an invisible cage.I wonder if she lives in a mirrored dome,stretching throughout an accordion tube,so she does not see what I see.When I say, "Good morning,"she turns her back and waves the back of her hand.After a few feet, she turns around againand walks toward my yard.In my bathroom,with my chin resting on my hands,I wonder how she defines freedom. I know—she is not captured in a space podwhere it takes forty-five minutes to shitappropriately into a small bag in microgravity. I do not know—I am willing to go outsideof the Earth where we are so stupidly helpless.Does she feel that way here,outside of her country; her husband drives their only carback late, full of white plastic bags.