Galaxies are dying
for the economy now,

have been since we stepped off.

I start sending letters
to the people I love,

start wearing my grandfather’s ring,
(gold orbit) and

with 84 years on your hands,
the hours, the weeks condense.

Listen, if a body spins fast
and wild enough around its center,
it can create its own false gravity.

I paint my nails a chameleon polish,
stare from my window at the street.

Quietly, the nurses and grocers
work their days thin.

I escape for a drive, remind myself how
to move 60 mph through space.

Immanuel tells me: “We are all planets”

so I pile on speed, lean off my skateboard,
carve in tight, elliptical rings.