by Jamie Thomson
While up there, no life
for him here. The neighbors
figure he’s dead—
Why else all the mail
and last year’s newspapers
piled on the porch?
And often he wonders too,
while orbiting some far-off planet
or one of its various, obscure moons.
He hears his rattlesnake breathing;
stares at his bloated, spacesuit arms;
thinks, But where and what am I.