How many times, I ask,
was a fisherman’s task
to clean the catch of the day
upon this lakeside dock
by barely four o’clock,
well before the skies turned gray?
The handle of the pump
would jitter, clack and thump,
to wash that night’s fish buffet.
facing the east
early in the day,
leaving morning behind
as the southern sun soars high,
yellow masks pursuing closely,
the platoon following their orders
with natural precision and guidance.
Midday falls away and the solar flight
continues westward, while synchronized
faces track the sun's path 'til dusk,
when shadows dim their purpose .
By daylight's sullen end,
the sun no longer
I dream of space and rocket ships,
rotation of the sun's ellipse,
and traveling to planet Mars,
a pit stop to more distant stars,
galactic dust and pulsar flips.
To view without the webcam clips,
from my own eyes, not microchips,
with reverie's binoculars,
I dream of space.
The cusps of vivid quasars' lips-
the last of macrocosmic trips
before awakened mental scars-
they shield me from this world of ours.
Although my reason comes to grips,
I dream of space
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.