Fall 2005 [Issue No. 8]



Tim Ormsby



Cosmonauts have funny faces.
By daylight, they resemble stolid dogs.
At night their features flutter like torn flags.

Do not denigrate the starlight squeezers.
They are tall men, adept gauge readers;
braver than cutlery, kinder than blintzes.

Say, I would love to push a cosmonaut
from a tall building, then go visit him
upon the ground. “Comrade,” I’d say,
“Hur mår du?” and “Finns du till?”

Stop snickering! I’m so damn sick of you.
I’d like to wring your neck or smack you on the pisk.

Dear gentlemen, please let me assure you
that I have no desire to injure cosmonauts.
I admire them much and I admire no rogues.
I just want a bit of money, then I’ll say
good things of men from all backgrounds,
all faiths, and every walk of life.
A little money, that is all I want—
oh, perhaps a girl, and braces for my teeth.



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