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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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