do you get cold up there
amongst the stars, then postmenopausal heat
as the sun comes into view,
gathering space debris into your apron pockets,
micrometeoroids to embed in silver pendants.
she'll polish her diamonds and gold in
the solar wind, then toss them towards
Pluto for good luck.
why not, the ripples of countless pennies
have yielded nothing
are you cold up there, wrap yourself
in a golden blanket and wish upon
a star.
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