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Suburban Galileo
hangs his laundry out to dry
and polishes his telescope,
pointing at the sky
as countless nameless neighbors
point and laugh as they roar by
in their temporary paradise machines.
They search for immortality
with artificial youth
in a fight against extinction
that they’re guaranteed to lose,
as Galileo stumbles
on the stony path of truth
and does his best to focus on his dreams.

For the clamor of tradition
is the moaning of the dead,
but the heavens hold the answers
if one dares to raise his head.
Yet, from the cold light of a million suns,
a million minds have fled,
leaving empty words to ring in empty heads.

At every evening’s end
the nameless eyes are searching still,
looking at a mirror
through a rolled-up dollar bill,
or their shuddering surroundings
through the bottle as it spills.
The vision’s always narrow, and untrue.
Afraid to turn their eyes
above their petty, earth-bound goals,
to peer beyond the walls
that form their own personal holes,
as permanent as twilight
or a falling star’s bright soul.
A storm of self-importance clouds their view.

Suburban Galileo
hangs his laundry out to dry,
and polishes his telescope,
still pointing at the sky.
He thinks about how nameless faces
fade as time goes by,
he shakes his famous head,
and he smiles.

©2000 Schroedinger’s Catbox