By Scott Beebe
he was taken in 1930
then subjected to the
minds & subsequent prodding
of scientists & philosophers
who spent much of the 20th
century turning
earthlings into
believers he had
belonged with them
now he’s troubled
& bumbles alone
“it’s so dark & cold” he
cries, no mattering
the hour or time of day –
ironically, a thing those
people on that distant
planet who forgave him
unto him, they had bestowed
a life & identity, considered
him handsome enough for
lengthy degrees of study
yet after one mere
hundred years they deem
him an object that
disappointed them deeper
than any ever imagined
by yanking out the security
blanket on which he comforted
just as he is about to
return to his former friend
the Red Snowman, a pair
of voices come down the
galaxy; he’s grateful for the
two dead fifth graders
fortune Boy & Braid who
have arrived to save him
from a certain death
of deboned loneliness
“come with us, Pluto”
says Braid the Brave,
holding her palm out
into which the little
ball could nestle in
order to keep on
aligning sun & stars
for her – even at night