Gazing out of the window
I see a moon almost full,
round, perfect and beautiful,
yet it exerts nothing poetical.
For centuries, she’s romanced
lovers, poets and prisoners,
there’s not a single word to add
about this object over-sung.
But we don’t talk about Pluto,
dispossessed of its title,
soaring in lonely isolation,
universe’s disinherited son.
I often think of you,
old enough to have been taught
you’re a planet, not a dwarf,
once you were not the underdog.
I hope that dancing with Charon
brings you solace in excommunication.
You’re of endurance a symbol,
the allure of the unknown.
The student sitting in the last row
might be the calm, smartest one,
not quite fitting into a role
tailored for just showing off.
Cosmic & Uneasy 