I could do nothing
in my solitary satellite, orbiting
hopeless circles around a death-shrouded
planet, a cloud cloaking what used to be
home. I don't know who is alive
down there--all I know
is that I wanted to be an astronaut
since before I knew the word--since I could look up
and recognize the stars as not only shining
but far. There is no sky in space
and the stars do not shine half as bright
as they did in the heart of the lone-star state.
The prairie sky died and I doubt the sage
will bloom again, but I remember
that Saturday night--boot-scoot dancing
and laughing at the economy,
because what was it made for if not to fail?
And the kiss.
But I won't think about you--deep in the heart
of a Texas-sized fireball that I'm certain hit
somewhere in the panhandle--because what can't
Texans handle? If there is still land
where Texas used to be, perhaps
there is an economy, trading in hog-skins
and feral meat. Perhaps the Tsunami
I can only imagine missed
the Yucatan and--but what of the islands?
I keep forgetting. Perhaps there is nothing
left. I cannot see the surface, a glimpse
of blue like a mirage at the edge of my vision,
but even that is suspect. No response
from ground control. No shuttle
to scuttle me home and no home to go to.
I've counted and recounted the supplies,
and it's enough
to prolong my death until I'm certain
you are gone--my bright star,
my shining home.