cares for telescopes like mechanical pets
camps out with cameras and an aching neck
tints torchlight, dims his van brothel-red
waits for the Earth to move, the moon to set
props a director’s chair for the fade to black
can’t factor his children’s resentment
accepts the conditions, won’t ask the sky why
will not love a nebula less the tenth time
gets teary at a clear viewing of Alpha Centauri
feels things to which his wife won’t relate
needs no chart to plot the now fragile arc
of a retired accountant’s amateur star—
knows meteors will rain down consolation:
Jupiter a river pebble, Saturn a silky stone
