Thursday, February 21, 2013

A Freelance Dove

The tower at the end of the space station
is boring until we painted the interior
a bold hue of orange
because I drink orange juice hourly.

When he was a dove,
he would ask me questions
about my past, present and future.
It was nice when he cared.
He was so free
that his wings took him to every girl.
I was not special.

I continue my work for the frontier of space,
a new asteroid awakes my
sleeping caterpillar.
Horizons full of satellite metal junk,
soon it will be so dense that the
sun will be blocked
and humans learn to die.

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