for John Grunsfeld
And as Atlantis opens up its door
to float him into space, and as he glides
in his bee-suit across the telescope’s sides
how will the stimulus seem to him—or,
as the shuttle opens up its bays,
will the housing market, or Iraq,
or Octomom be enough to bring him back?
What does genocide look like from space?
Here to fix a thing he can’t redo,
will the pebble below him leave him blinded?
Can the heavens make him single minded?
As he floats, I’ll be floating too,
me in my bee-suit wondering why
we’ve been built as we are but still can fly.