I imagine the planets
signing our name.
I circle ideas with grease
pencil and x others out.
My best friend warns of a smear campaign.
I formally request a wooden spoon.
I get drunk on cheap champagne.
Time collects its signatures.
Soon, the distance runners
will return.
The neo-groovy youth of Shady High
will rediscover the Yardbirds.
I watch the Bunsen Burner’s flame
dance and change color.
This is little consolation
for missing the solar flare.
There are ways of going about things.
For instance, banging a gong.
The song starts again.
I tie a piece of dental floss
to a brown mouse
with a broken tail.
I swear the mouse to secrecy
before I set it loose.
Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His poems have appeared in Conduit, Poetry Northwest, and Another Chicago Magazine.