Splashdown

He pulls it out

of my mouth

the drill 

for long enough

that I can see the score:

physics versus two humans

left in space

for 286 days.

Parachutes deployed

their pod's engulfed in flames

while my dentist

earns his pay

my eyes glued to the screen

that normally shows

the weather, who's died

and what should anger

those of us still living.

He offers me a mirror

that I decline

pointing to the device

he's had installed 

for my distraction

in a ceiling corner

of his office.

We watch well after

my allotted time

divers in green helmets

boarding that capsule

that possible coffin

bobbing in the sea

as dolphins circle to greet it.

The astronauts' muscles

having atrophied

they can't open

the vessel's escape hatch

relying on their rescuers

to cue the media frenzy.

I pity their return.

What a lousy planet

they've entered again:

a trauma bond

misnomered

with sentimental value.

Currently reading:

"History of Bannerman's Island Arsenal, No. 30-B" by Thom Johnson.