ALAN PERRY POETRY
POEMS
Exoplanet
Astronomers discover a new star: Trappist-1
and its seven planets–b through h
I’m relieved to know there’s hope for me,
that a Goldilocks character might inhabit
another world. Some water is likely there,
not frozen but free to slide down mountains
and glimmer off the starset, life as I
would want it–warm enough to be nurtured,
strong enough to survive meteor rain, asteroids–
while I wait for the right eon
to be invited to live there and love
a body called d, e or f–it’s hard to see on Earth,
40 light years away from Aquarius.
But I’m patient.
I’ll flip through the planets,
focus the telescope and hold my breath
for the fly-by of your light
to reach me.
(first published in Heron Tree, 2017)
Clocking Out
The metal gray time-clock
seemed to monitor every movement.
Its glassy face never blinked
as it belled interruptions through the day.
It knew when I began to work
went home, ate lunch
visited the restroom.
I had to punch it–not really a punch
more like a nudge with a card
inked with my name and clock number–
until it snapped down on a precise day
hour, minute–bracketed pieces of shifts
book-ended by morning’s dark arrival
more darkness in evening departure.
I wondered who ran the timepiece–
pictured a little man in a back office
rationalizing the worth of each worker
as he collected employee records
on errors, outputs, goodbyes.
Or maybe nothing was behind the clock
except a wall plug and cord
keeping it alive with voltage–
doling out daily stamps for temporal work
until the electricity is cut
and hands no longer matter.
Signs
He looked troubled as the request
came over the intercom.
Blind and deaf, he didn’t hear
the flight attendant or see the girl
who pressed the call button
and said she could sign.
His long gray beard was uncut
his hair disheveled and his squinted stare
seemed to plead—water?
The girl cupped his curled fingers
around hers and began to spell
words he couldn’t speak.
Like many on the flight, strangers
unable to talk with each other
over chaired walls
through separating curtains
across divided aisles.
He didn’t want water, she said
only some company
in his muted space at 40,000 feet.
He grasped her every letter
each curve and clasp
stroke and symbol
that laced their fingers.
He couldn’t see it
but nodded at the smile
she left in his hands.
Departing
The financial planner points to a chart,
says he expects me to die in 2040.
I don’t hold it against him—
he’s supposed to be actuarial.
Though I do take offense
when he denotes me as a period
on a downward sloping graph.
I let him know the inky dot
doesn’t look anything like me—
I’m taller and in much better shape.
As he abruptly closes his binder,
I take the opportunity to tell him
when he should plan to leave.
(first published in Right Hand Pointing, 2018)