2093 (or something pretentious)

Call it the same

or an opera.

There’s a space farmer,

first in his profession.

He grows space wheat,

sweet corn, and barley.

He was born to this moon,

a native’s kind of native,

native

no novelty about it.

He hates the new migrants.

They ruined their rock.

And the space farmer,

with his space partner,

has a space daughter

who studies horticulture

at the A&M on Mars.

She commutes by Lunar Lander,

named for an easier time.

And the space daughter

has a space lover,

and he seldom shines her light,

but blows her mind with his politics,

which she takes back

to crack,

when not at his space flat.

She serves them to the space farmer

and his space partner,

and they space argue,

and the space farmer spares no

sympathy

for the troubles of the Old World, New,

or the send up of history.

The space daughter leaves in a huff.

Enough.

She weds her space lover,

and they strike out on their own,

for it’s their turn

to forget.

Shaving on a Day Off

It’s either the best of free choice

or the height of conditioning.

Though not every day off,

I shave differently

when I do

on off day mornings.

I examine my blades,

switch them out if need be.

I let the water warm

before dousing my face.

I use cream,

not soap,

and I apply it liberally,

evenly,

with a purpose beyond

that imposed.

I shave with pride,

and delight.

I take care around my Adam’s apple.

I leave no cuts,

nor unshorn hairs.

There.

I look harder in the mirror.

I inspect my work closely,

for it’s mine alone to inspect.

So this is self-employment?