Solar System as Frying Pan

When I look to the stars I see Auden’s face, poet, the light settling around him in his late eternal age, not making him look as old as he was then but making him look lived in, as old as he is now.

Meantime, traffic jams of words down here on earth.

Anger as pedestal from which I am looking down on everything I’ve written or said in the past, sorry for having spoken.

Henceforth, I will be propelled into outer space for my sins, sailing into the void of a newly minted silence on the wings of a cast-iron frying pan, borrowed from neighbor Patsy last night so that Lea Ann could fry pork chops for our guests—all of them very politically conservative earthlings.

Whom the Gods destroy they first make hungry.

Frying pan at rest after intergalactic adventure. Photo by author.