Even if they exist, we are still alone.
Not like they’re going to invite us
to any of their parties
or read any of our books.
Besides, some friends only make contact
when they want something.
Maybe they tried calling already
and we didn’t get the message.
Maybe they’re just not talking to us right now,
mad over some spilled secret
about the universe
they tried to keep hidden.
Maybe they have big bang egos.
An inflated sense of self.
Jealous they can travel through space
and still not get anywhere.
Maybe they don’t reach out
because they’re sadder than us,
more insecure, more fragile, more distant,
more alien to themselves.
CLINT MARGRAVE is the author of the novel, Lying Bastard (Run Amok Books, 2020), and the poetry collections, Salute the Wreckage, The Early Death of Men, and Visitor (forthcoming) all from NYQ Books. His work has appeared in The Threepenny Review, Rattle, The Moth, Ambit, and Los Angeles Review of Books, among others. He lives in Los Angeles, CA., U.S.A.
More by Clint Margrave:
Poem in Rattle
Poem in One
Visit the author’s website
Follow Clint Margrave on Twitter @clintmargrave