Our room grew a hole when
the sky landed by our heads
and, when meteorite met
bed of linen taut with
our stereotypical tensions,
the walls gasped for air
You and I roll out to
satellite lives, discrete
roles on a split screen,
the obvious rock between
when the ceiling leaks
If we point to the spot, camping out on the rock —make peace with a ceiling gaping absurd fate—can we laugh that our autopilot under this humdrum canopy was spiced up by space debris?
Published December 2021 in South Shore Review