There are no lost astronauts, remarkably.
If it had been up to me, there’d be domed helmets
wandering the Mariner Valley and writhing
in orbit, like car keys under the radiator
and wallets left on rooves while gassing up,
there’d be support groups for the wives
and husbands, and petitions to indict me
for absentmindedness or incompetence,
neither illegal thank God,
and you’d bump into one every now and again,
like dogs not sure they should approach you
because you may be friendly or you
may be lost, too, a divorced man fleeing debts,
deciding to drink that forty bucks
instead of sleeping in a bed.
If you agree to go up in a rocket, anything can happen.
Your song becomes the astronaut’s song,
as dumb as any anthem, “We
wayfarers of the vast black empty /
Pointsmen of the new unknown,”
like that. We pee in our suits.
But astronauts come in all sizes and shapes,
colors and measures of capableness,
foolish giants and brusque dwarves and sleepwalking escapists,
littering the night sky with their headlights
and the dark regions between,
and when you look up, on your lawn,
it’s hard to say which are lost, or if they aren’t all,
scattered, wishing love could find them,
but knowing it’s only up to the chance passing
of a satellite, at best, as it bounces
the business-trip phone calls from Sydney
to New York, and back again.
A Lost Astronaut Love Story
Did you enjoy the the artible “A Lost Astronaut Love Story” from Michael Atkinson on OZOFE.COM? Do you know anyone who could enjoy it as much as you do? If so, don't hesitate to share this post to them and your other beloved ones.
Leave a Reply