Space Weather
    
 A rain of heated rocks and antimatter,
 alarmed citizens dashing for shelter,
 cursing the gods and government,
 the weathergirl nodding off in her chair,
 electromagnetic hail playing havoc
 with satellites and phone reception,
 the old crone banging her television,
 its screen clouded over with static hiss,
 cosmic rays and solar flares
 all part of a bigger picture,
 those falling stars not stars at all,
 unmoved by the whims of prediction.
  
 
Pocket
  
 Reaching in
 I pull out a tooth,
 a lead toy soldier,
 a map of chaos,
 smudged instructions.
  
 Reaching down
 I can touch
 the Earth, a moon,
 two godheads,
 three spiders’ breaths,
 the frozen juices
 found on Ganymede.
  
 In my pocket
 I carry your name,
 a magical pebble,
 a gram of opium.
 And the very bullet
 from the very gun
 used to slaughter
 the last of innocence.
  
 It feels like
 a hole or ice to me.
 It feels like
 blood on my hands.
  
  
 Quick Assessment 
  
You look like a dog
 that’s just been shown a card trick.
 You look as if your kitten has gone missing.
 Like someone has casually mentioned
 your mother is not your mother.
 That your soup is too hot and too cold.
  
 Instead, why not bow to a different master?
 Why not go down to the sea 
 and throw stones at the waves?
 Or let me put it his way; a pig grows fat
 but a hog gets slaughtered.
  
  
  Old Hat
    
 Buying a used hat.
 Putting it on.
 Thinking about the head
 that used to fit it,
 the thoughts it thought,
 the unusual hairstyle
 it wore for decades,
 for far too long, really.
  
 Putting my head into
 another man’s hat.
 Wondering if he wondered
 or needlessly worried,
 taking it off
 as he scratched his head,
 tipping it politely
 when he met the vicar,
 placing it down gently
 at the foot of his bed.