Ground Control to Major Tom

In an age
            When the poets have plenty of Language
                                                            But no longer hear voices

                                                And have no more need for truck stops or bookstores
                        And the musicians have long ago ceased
                                    To concern themselves with moving air

Certain prophets arrive on a warm fluke
                                    A gust of blood alcohol, fully prepared
            As the weather in Phoenix becomes more

                                                                                    Like that in Houston.
Weather girls and middle-aged men staring at screens
                        Feel that the general rise in relative humidity

                                                Foreshadows a new ice age, an age that demands
            The air be refrigerated rather than pushed
                                                            Down through the house and out the windows

                        And advise a return to tin cans tethered by string.
                                    The umbilical tether is all, just ask
                                                Those Apollo guys or their Hitchcock blonde wives

            The window, and not the thumb
Cut and riveted into tempered steel, stronger
                                    Than reentry fire or the Indian Ocean, framing

                                                            Galaxies in eight inches by twelve
                                                                        Is what makes us human, separates us from monkeys
            Or dogs. In even the most minty fresh epochs

                                    A solid image of nature, like a little black dress
            Or your teacher’s sightless skull, never goes
Out of style. Seeing, again and again, and a six pack

Of Lone Star Beer cooling in the refrigerator,
                        Is believing.

John Glenn.

R. D. Girard | Mudlark No. 21
Contents | Havana Moon