The astronaut
the man in
the threadbare
tweed
says
he’s laying
low right now,
coasting
through,
baby,
paying off
a few
invisible debts
to secondhand
store angels,
man,
dodging
the black holes,
so to speak,
shopping at
the golden harp
food mart every
other day
roaming the
origami streets
of Earth’s
enfolded cities
requesting
a few quarks
over in front
of the Full Yum
where they
whisper how
he’s lacking direction,
and he laughs,
shushes them with
his next stop is Mars
