Our sun was dying.
Most of us stayed behind
to slowly die with it.
But a few booked passage
on space ships,
with no particular destination,
no plan in mind,
other to extend our lives
in relative comfort,
for as long as our fuel lasted.
That we have landed here
is sheer happenstance.
We are not tourists.
We are not an invading force.
We are merely desperate.
It’s most likely we can’t
breathe your air
or eat your food.
And our rockets
were damaged on impact.
So we cannot move on from here.
Please let us
hunker down in our cocoons,
live out the rest of our existence
in dignity.
Forget any great knowledge-swap
You have little to learn from us
because we have nothing much to tell.
It’s comfortable here
in this garden
shaded by your –
what do you call them – roses.
A red sky just like the one back home.
But, thank god, for different reasons.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Soul Ink. I have spent a lifetime as a curator of my own library which has historically contained more books than I will ever hope to read.