stumbles into time, an amateur
actor, used to playing third string
moon, desperate for work, unaware
the fame up ahead, unaware of the
hard work,
the consistent demand, night after
night,
year after year, century after century,
unaware
of the bad reviews, the scandals
and the skewed use, the marketing
and short marriages to lesser known comets,
holds the position boldly, washes feet
every night, gets to know the sun
and starts to work a rhythm.
Walks in eighth night, sees burning eyes
in the garden's only two naked bodies
covered in golden leaves from the first fall,
realizes who the stars are, lowers head
and falls into routine, happy to have a job
in this shit economy, this universal recession,
orbits, once again, a slave in the milky way galaxy.
-Aaron Blum
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