Left behind again

Captured on film
for all to see

Another man touched down
another flag unfurled

He knew it wasn't an accident
There was no oversight
no cause for excuse

He entered through the atmosphere
gathered himself up
stepping out of his orange jumpsuit
and into a final gesture

(he passed two lovers lost
in the hum of a median strip)

He had been instructed not to turn around
that lens will only distort things

The emergency coordinates were correct
he found the laundromat and fell asleep
under the sorting counter

In a country so cold that dead men refuse
the scattering of ashes
he dreamt of a slow suffocation
while swimming under ice

Chris Corbett's fiction and prose has appeared in The Spectator, Shattered Wig Review, and The Red River Review. He lives in a tree house at the base of Mt. Tamalpais in Northern California and spends his days writing, reading, and spinning eclectic sets of music. To contact him, send email to Digital_Telepathy@msn.com.