no one reads your stuff

or the few who do

don’t really get it

 

then the earth blows up

and your precious writing

becomes space trash

 

floating past the planets

into the deep empty galaxy

 

then a hundred thousand years

after your death

 

some alien life form

comes across your writing

translates it into his alien language

 

reads it

nods his alien head in understanding

and says, “I hear you, man.”

________________________

Bob Hudson is a sixty-minute man.

Bob Hudson, Poetry