Nine seats. The inner waiting room is still
except for TV infomercial dreams:
I'm young again. I'm in control. I will
my days. I lost the weight. And though life seems
a heavy sea while we're an orphaned crew
and steering's long been lost, machines shoot us
with rays embedded in the sun. Techs choose
and calibrate and lasers aim. No gust,
no hint of anything at all. A click,
rotation of slow windmill arms,
another click, and radiation's trick
is done. Tomorrow once again. No charm
more potent than the poison from the stars.
Outside, the TV noise, the passing cars.