Outer Space

Each of us like a little light saber

with a Force that could bind,
not just the world,

but the entire galaxy together.

We believed in Science Fiction,
in nuclear ballistic missiles, x-ray technology,
          Ronald Regan’s big red button.
We loved the slender whiteness
          of our toy rocket boosters.

We watched the Challenger explode
on a forty inch TV the yard-duty
rolled into our classroom.

First, lift-off
          and that long plume of smoke—
before the announcement over the PA system:
Schoolchildren of America…
man’s horizons…
the crew’s final mission…

And each kid
went home to small plastic toys
while the world went on about o-rings
          and washed-up debris.

As it turns out, space
                    just keeps on expanding and accelerating—

made up of a dark energy that one day
will rip our gravity away.

So we took the railroad tracks to the park by the wash
          and climbed to the top

of the metal rocket slide.

We can’t not look up at those stars—

even if they are           just gas           and dust           swirling
from a freezing stellar wind.

          We’re waiting for transmission
in a wave of silence,

our bodies like little signal towers,
          our hoods pulled over our heads.