Tuesday, January 1, 2019

The Kieper Belt - Poem


The Kieper Belt is where all the leftover things reside from the formation of the Solar System


We sit on the front porch while the rain drizzles down.
Firecrackers boom in the background.
Grandbaby Max jumps like a scared puppy dog.
Neighbor George Schuler has purple patches on his once
clean-shaven cheeks, but that's what comes out of reassembling
yourself from the grave.

In my warm beret I point to the skies, licorice dark,
and exclaim, Here's the funny thing. The space ship's
been up there a decade. And now with folks at the Athens' Acropolis
the Seattle Needle, and London's Globe Theater, humankind will start anew.

Everything that's been written about has been writ.
Willie Shakespeare saw to that, killing folks off at
babydom, pubescence, or old age, kings and fools alike.

We'll say a silent prayer as the ship swoops by the mini land of
Ultima Thule, Not to bother with the name, in the time it takes to
crack open a peanut shell, the ship will settle down to investigate
like only a few of us can do.

Hey, Bubby, says five-year-old Max. I have news for y'all.
Life as we knows it, comes from that tub of rubble known as
Ultima Thule, flying in a space machine called Bright Horizons
Bright, with real acorns set down in Mom's ole fashioned ceramic
ash tray and at the exact moment, with a red second hand watch
the world comes to a stop.

And there it is, there it stands, a hiccup or two in time,
and a kiss of stubbly bearded Dad in his blue "Dad's" cupholder
but do it matter? Do it? Do it? Do it? like the color of
snuff and dromedaries in the desert and pitted dates.

I read the book and there ain't much more.

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