Aging spaceman
Joseph “J.J.” Jenkins
departs the dimness
of an air-conditioned bar
into the blinding dazzle
of the planet’s star.
The humid atmosphere
is semi-breathable,
though oily with bus fumes.
He reels a bit, swayed by
the searing, gritty breeze
and alien gravity – he assumes.
An indigenous female
approaches – oxblood lips
and hair, nose stud, tattoo,
black nails, fluid hips.
Her otherworldly eyes
distain him as no prize.
He dutifully
passes by
dully, without fear,
but longing for
the burn of rye
and cool, cool beer.
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