meteor

•

you’re twisting, bending, pushing
through your assembly line life
trying to remember to lift with your
legs, eat enough greens, resist
succumbing to the snake
of morning traffic, the strain of beer
belly against your jeans, the crick
in your neck, the cacophony of
telephone calls, emails, faxes beating
their demands into your saturated
skull, and you find yourself hoping
for a sweetness on your tongue, a
symphony for your ear, a rush of silk
against your skin, anything, really,
to break up the monotony of
spot-welding hope to quiet
desperation, and then early one
morning you’re making coffee when
the darkness surrounding you is
lit in a startling flash of blue and
white and you wonder if the aliens have
invaded or if you’ve finally gone
mad and you forget about your
coffee, shrug into your winter coat and
boots, and start walking toward
the horizon, looking for some remnant
of brilliance, because now that you’ve
seen it, you’re not willing to let it go.