by Frank Hubeny
“I wish I had a heavenly body, but I’m a big, fat black hole. I suck the goodness from the Boston cream universe.”
“Jane! What are you talking about? Fat? You’re 5 feet 6, 110 pounds, gorgeous. You hate donuts.”
“I’m writing a poem, Brian. Don’t bug me.”
“A girl’s got to have poetry. You don’t want me to flunk this class, do you?”
“What are they making you write about this time?”
“It has to be about stars or something heavenly. It also has to be about love.”
In silence we decide what’s true.
I wonder and you wonder, too.
Through distances we’re ever bound.
But hope the truth remains unfound.
“Brian, I’m curious. Am I your only sunshine? Or do you get any light from some two-bit binary that brightens your night after I go to bed?”
“Baby, you’re the only one. Just look around you. There’s no one else in sight.”
“Like I said, she comes out when I can’t see her.”
“There’s no one else but you. And, well, how about me. Am I your only one?”
“Brian, get real. I’m 110 pounds. I’m hot. I’ve got comets whistling after me and who knows what I’m likely to pick up while circling the galaxy. I’ve got old planets that spin on my smiles. And then there’s Mars.”
“So, it’s true about Mars?”
“Stop being so jealous. It doesn’t matter anymore and nothing can be done about it now anyway. That thing with Mars ended long ago.”
The silence warned you to refrain
From seeking what might cause you pain,
From finding what should stay well hid
About the things a lover did.
“Brian, I’m just kidding. Can’t you take a joke? I’m busy.
You’re my only Earth, the only one. Let me finish this stupid thing.”
Frank lives north of Chicago and works in data processing.