Perhaps a mob job.  But he tumbles on “cotton,”
heat seeping through his cringed eyelids.
He could think amusement ride, he could think
kid playing astronaut, but it’s no fun
when the lungs sear raw with waiting.
And even if he could somehow kick or punch
the porthole door open, what would lie
on the other side?  Some tough
with a lead billy jack?  A baseball bat
studded with bloodied nails?  Nope.
Better to stay inside.  What did
the Great Philosopher say anyway?
Let no man question his fate.
We are just small gods made by a god
who was made by who knows,
and each knew he was destined to be created,
all the way back to the God
who somehow foretold his own
creation, long before he existed,
before a hand reached into the spinning void
and shook him into use,
soft and static-free.