Poetry by John Grey
At seven a. m., the young astronaut,
waits nervously, excitedly,
strapped inside a rocket ship,
as a loud voice, somewhere in the universe,
counts down from 10.
While zero means boil the water,
flush the toilet, shave the chin,
up and down the east coast,
the capsule, the man,
shake from an engine rumble
of city-flattening earthquake decibels.
Despite an ear-drum shattering takeoff,
the noiseless yawn, the nose
wiped on a tissue, the indifferent
cheek kiss, are heard more frequently.