I don’t have anything terribly profound to say about this one. It’s not a work of art, and I didn’t mean for it to be. I wrote it because it amused me, in a wry sort of way.
As I was going through one of my old hard drives the other day,
I happened across
an old poem.
A bad one, of course–
mine always are.
It was about you,
as they always were
in those days.
Some prattle that painted
you the Sun and
me the Earth,
gravitationally chained to you,
whether I liked it or not,
until your girth and your heat eventually swallowed me whole
some 5 or 6 billion years later.
The metaphor was all right, I suppose,
but the execution atrocious.
But even after I had a giggle or two at
my own propensity for melodrama,
I didn’t forget the image.
If I had been more insightful
(though I never was back then; they say it’s a hallmark),
I’d have called you the Earth
and me the Moon–
unable to turn away, and
forced to stare at your stupid face for all eternity.
Oh, how you would’ve loved that.
(Though Uranus and one of its moons would’ve probably fit better:
I have the Shakespearean name for it,
and you’re no doubt an asshole.)
But it occurred to me today,
on my way to McDonald’s for a chicken sandwich
(and coffee, naturally),
that I am neither Earth, nor Moon, nor any other celestial body.
What I am, instead,
is a Space Shuttle….
And I have achieved escape velocity, motherfucker.