My bubble

My bubble doesn’t trouble me. It’s clear as smutty blue glass. It keeps me cool, and I’m doubly safe inside its gelatin grasp. Out there is where dry misfits slip by unaware. Whetly I watch them, and most fittingly my lips I press against its oily splotched membrane. What they dare to do or not isn’t troubling either. I’ve got this bubble to maintain, and the air’s not free here.