and stocks are down three percent.
I’ve swallowed enough
flies to be carried off this planet
but we won’t make it
much farther than
the international space station
and trespassers will be shot
into the sun,
which is no longer on fire.
It gifted all its flames to the moon.
The sun is now a gas
station in your hometown
and the prices are
astronomical.
Looks like you’ll have to
cancel that trip
to the grocery store.
The grocery store is on fire
and stocks are soaring.
The grocery store is on fire
and your landlord is selling
twenty-four packs of dasani for half
a month’s rent.
The flies exit my body
somewhere in the mesosphere,
say they’re unionizing,
say they can’t work,
without food.
I try to tell them
it’s not my fault
my stomach is empty,
but I’m already hurtling
back towards earth.
You see my body
somewhere in the distant sky
and mistake me
for a shooting star,
but you can’t think of a wish
before I burn up.