Poem by a Washed-Out Astronaut in January

This is the season
Of maximum dynamic pressure
Of short cold days
And only light for funerals.
Throttle down, says Control.
But hell I’m still a boy;
It’s only disembodied Fate
That cleared the pad at birth
Or accelerates with height
So you Roger this, Control,
Not my choice, nor yours!
And keep your hand away from that abort switch!
Why…why…what’s with you,
Control?  I was only dropping our swing
Ladder down from old Fort Oak
Because…it’s snowed
To shake it off a bit
Or would you rather slip
And fall?  I say, I say
I saved that broken arm!
Or don’t you remember
The name of our tree house?
Or don’t you remember
Us playing war? 

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