By John Grey
Until now, she’s only loved astronauts
and, as I stare into her dark eyes,
a jet stream of disappointment streaks behind her.
She’s listening for that countdown
in my groping embarrassed silence,
the explosion of takeoff
in nervous, ground-hugging words.
Here I am
at the end of a long line
of adventure seekers,
a guy apologizing for his normalcy.
I can only point to the stars,
not come from there.
My life lacks the boosters
to escape my gravity.
She’s been with men
who cruised the galaxy,
showed her Earth
as a lonely spinning ball.
How could she ever love
one of its lonely spinning people?
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Midwest Quarterly, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and Roanoke Review.