There are thirteen thousand
manufactured objects—two inches
or greater—in orbit around
your planet right now. When
my ship pulls up, there are
thirteen thousand and one.
I enjoy being among so much
of your junk. It gets me closer
to the ethos of your planet—
ever expanding circles
of junk. At first I thought
it was disdain, but now
I see it’s a way you have
of expressing ownership.
Circling, I scoff at TV and
what passes for “prepared food.”
On my planet, no one used
microwaves, and we all decided
the radio went far enough
in terms of in-home
electronic entertainment.
The space around us has
absolutely no orbiting junk,
only a few weather satellites
and a refueling station
with a small shop and liquid
hydrogen in three grades. Even
its bathroom floors are clean.
This poem first appeared in Space Traveler (University of Tampa, 2014).
—
Benjamin S. Grossberg’s books of poetry include My Husband Would (University of Tampa, 2020), winner of the 2021 Connecticut Book Award, and Sweet Core Orchard (University of Tampa, 2009), winner of a Lambda Literary Award. He also wrote the novel, The Spring before Obergefell (University of Nebraska, 2024), which was selected by Percival Everett for the 2023 AWP Award Series James Alan McPherson Prize. Ben is Director of Creative Writing at the University of Hartford.
