2093 (or something pretentious)
Call it the same
or an opera.
There’s a space farmer,
first in his profession.
He grows space wheat,
sweet corn, and barley.
He was born to this moon,
a native’s kind of native,
native
no novelty about it.
He hates the new migrants.
They ruined their rock.
And the space farmer,
with his space partner,
has a space daughter
who studies horticulture
at the A&M on Mars.
She commutes by Lunar Lander,
named for an easier time.
And the space daughter
has a space lover,
and he seldom shines her light,
but blows her mind with his politics,
which she takes back
to crack,
when not at his space flat.
She serves them to the space farmer
and his space partner,
and they space argue,
and the space farmer spares no
sympathy
for the troubles of the Old World, New,
or the send up of history.
The space daughter leaves in a huff.
Enough.
She weds her space lover,
and they strike out on their own,
for it’s their turn
to forget.
Shaving on a Day Off
It’s either the best of free choice
or the height of conditioning.
Though not every day off,
I shave differently
when I do
on off day mornings.
I examine my blades,
switch them out if need be.
I let the water warm
before dousing my face.
I use cream,
not soap,
and I apply it liberally,
evenly,
with a purpose beyond
that imposed.
I shave with pride,
and delight.
I take care around my Adam’s apple.
I leave no cuts,
nor unshorn hairs.
There.
I look harder in the mirror.
I inspect my work closely,
for it’s mine alone to inspect.
So this is self-employment?
