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I could imagine reacting to life on other worlds the way a

Tribal sponge cleaner would react to a washing machine

As he reluctantly prods it with one of his burnt-out torches

He’d made for his wife for their anniversary



All the scientists gather around the looking glass, scribbling gargantuan words

And pushing up their glasses, speculating whether or not

The language they spoke had been the correct one at all



I could visualize them as they stepped out of their spaceship

Wandering around a grassy patch, careful to keep a safe distance



A wisp of clouds inch overhead,

To us a common thing, to them a phenomena they’d been told

Around a fireplace made of stars, stories counted and recounted

About the clouds and the strange way they danced on the opposite side of the galaxy



Stacking papers on their desks, the scientists retire home and

Dream of how they’d tell the public about what they had found

As Times Square flickers to a still of the alien’s face

The people below suddenly feel much less significant



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