Elegy for e Space Poet

You don’t watch the news anymore, forget to wash your feet in the shower, dream of walking on water because it was promised to you. You have never heard of rebranding. The sky is your meandering picture show it is a really bad video, you just have never found a good director, that’s all. What if poetry appeared in an alien spaceship, I mean a human craft but one hijacked by aliens, out there in the vastness of God’s bubble? What if this poetry thing was not about you or any other known life form, would you still expect your nails to grow as they rattle over a keyboard, your spine to be a rack of lamb upon which words arrive as alien artifacts just so you can decorate the space that haunts you behind your eyes. Is it possible that that unidentified grainy image wobbling over a prairie landscape was really you taking a driving test? Your words are out there as space junk, images that you don’t have the power to undo. Is it possible that none of your poems, not one, will ever land well enough?