Good Luck, Mr. Gorsky
There are never countdowns at the right times.
I’m talking about when the seconds really tick,
before the cameras and jets go off,
before the gas is pumped and hands clapped,
before the praise is tuned and sung,
before gravity falls out from under you.
All that is just signing the paperwork,
and thunder catching up to the lightning.
I read that each cell in a body is replaced
every seven years and if that’s true
then I’ve been hanging up photos of you
standing next to other people this whole time.
Exploded stars get all the credit for leaving an image
around after they’ve long gone.
I imagine them sending letters, throwing hard
or pinning notes to a passing asteroid
that looks like it's headed right our way.
What would happen if they ever really needed help,
just think of all the bodies we’ve gone through
by the time it gets to us.
Sam Cochrane is a poet living in Buffalo, New York. He’s previously been published in Foundlings. Dying on hills is his specialty.