I am watching the skies as I lie on my hard metal bed
(at least it's not cold)
and I see a falling star.
Ah, pretty
and then
I remember.
Doesn't a falling star mean death?
I watch it and the star comes down
falling
whistling
pop, like a firework, quiet, off in the distance.
I ask: whose house? Whose parent or whose child
was under that man-made falling star?
And my friends have seen it too.
We see where it came from (the radar helps)
It's time to get to work.
Quickly! Get in! Start the engine again! Turn over that way!
And that's exactly what we do.
We are a machine.
It is our job. My job.
Load!
Lock!
Clear!
I have strong arms and clever hands
I can do this in three seconds
and keep on going
for over an hour
(we don't need to tonight, twice a minute will do)
And so I load, and lock, and clear and load again
Every falling star hand-delivered
He who sends may also receive.
It's funny
because it seems, it was forever ago
there was a girl who lived next door
(her father owned an orange grove
and we would sit together and talk of childish things)
but she was the Enemy, I learned
and now
I saw her again on TV
she spoke of resistance
and self-defence
and doing unto others
She wore a mask, but I would know that voice anywhere.
(My boss says they build rockets in their garages you know)
Perhaps it was she who delivered the first falling star of the evening
and so
I return the favor.
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Purringthoughts
I'm establishing this for its own sake. I may or may not ever use it. HOMG I USED IT
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Shaviv
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Falling star, falling star,
My boss would write a story on the falling star for the newspaper
And then he'd lose it in all his papers
Or else he wouldn't have time to edit it because he had a two paragraph story to write
Or he would spend an hour eating a cinnamon roll and drinking coffee
Or correcting my mistakes
In fact, why didn't the falling star just fall right on his a**!