By Angela Counts © 2008
So there is nothing there.
Nothing I can see.
But the rub out.
Of what was to have been me.
With pencil it is possible to erase.
With words to kill.
The soft, tender flesh of the ill
Not so quick to accuse.
I have my reputation to maintain.
I like rain because it drowns out the silence,
Better than pills
Or ear plugs.
But don’t drink it.
Don’t even think it.
We still have our tawny earth.
Not with the big “E.”
Never understood that one.
Too big, even from space.
We won that race.
Does anyone remember.?
Do we still want to go to the moon?
I do, at least for a visit.
I wouldn’t stay, not enough amenities.
When they get in the fried chicken and tofu, maybe.
Maybe I’m crazy, but if we’ve wrecked this place
What’s next, it’s not easy getting an apartment as it is.
Will I need connections, or just get left behind?
Ah, who cares. There’ll still be some remote island where the bugs still care.
Where the wear and tear isn’t so great, even if the air is a bit laggard, a bit rare.
There’s still gotta be a place a girl can get some rest,
Even if it’s abandoned, passé,
And look up in the stars and imagine you all there:
Long lines for moon dust, chicken nuggets, organic and free range;
On the moon, or Mars.
Pluto isn’t a planet, takes too long to get there.
Just give a wave.
I won’t see you, and I won’t care, but I’d rather die
Here. There is nothing there, nothing I can see.