Space-Age Material

Dec 5 2011

In the small vestibule,

where my breath condenses

in the frigid air,

and frost has formed

on the clear glass door

in curlicues

and lacy patterns.

Where the floor is strewn

with boots and toques

abandoned, scattered.

Mittens, mismatched

gloves, one-handed.

And where you can smell the cold

that swept-in, as I entered

like an arctic blizzard,

I stand

fingers numb,

can’t unlace, unzip

unbutton.

Congealed beard

dripping, running.

This small cubicle

my mother used to call

the decontamination chamber.

Enclosed, self-contained,

like a space station airlock

sealing-off

the frozen vacuum

from the warm bright interior.

So here I stand

waiting for the temperature to rise

pressures equalize,

eyelashes thaw, beard soften.

Waiting to regain

manual dexterity,

extricate myself

from these heavy protective layers

of space-age material.

And enter into a blast of heat,

dry winter air, the smell of cooking

that will not be vented

‘til spring.

I could see the place forever

walking home

along the bleak rural road,

the lighted window, plume of smoke.

A tiny outpost

in a vast and trackless space,

like a small star, in the distance.

Just one, of millions,

but growing bigger and bigger;

looming large

preparing to dock.

Unless my trajectory is off

just a bit

 — a near miss,

and I would go drifting on

into infinity.

A tiny astronaut, falling farther and farther,

oxygen, close to exhaustion

the cold

seeping in.

A frozen body

tumbling through the cosmos

non-stop.

A simple winter walk,

lost

until it thaws

next spring.