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It never occurred to me
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if Pluto should be considered
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a planet. In truth
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I barely remember
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to which sun your home belongs.
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I don’t care
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to decide if a mouse will outwait the owl,
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if a child will notice
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the approach of an impending car.
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It’s all too much
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detail sometimes, such drama,
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even for me; after all
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I have galaxies to spin—
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they progress
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faster than you know;
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some collide even now.
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But you remain so earnest—
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still believing yourself
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to be the favored one,
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so sure a father can be
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everywhere, in all things:
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in a fanciful moment,
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only you will believe
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the invention of time;
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only you will follow
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the meteor’s arc, watch it
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burn away until, a molten pebble,
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it crashes into your brimming cup.
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