I think we’d all like to know.
Know how to make a person weak in the joints, or forget they have joints at all.
Know whether or not a higher being watches you and makes adjustments in his notebook.
Or know if my Dad will pay to put the heater on.
Some know that the moon is 238,900 miles away from my satellite dish.
run. run. run.
I wish I got texts from NASA when the International Space Station crossed over my head at night. I’d run outside feeling my adrenal glands pump and watch it in a stilling silence.
Catching stutters and half sentences as my thinking thrives into oblivion and wastes pen ink.
Just, Hazel Grace