When the Aliens Come

When the aliens come,
we will want to tell them everything.
They will be like children, and we will be
like children.  There will be lineups
winding around street corners to see them,
each of us wanting to sing them
our favourite songs or else just hold them
like we like to be held so they know
how it feels.

We will explain to the aliens in simple terms
how our grandparents poked holes
in the sky and how we are trying to close them up.

“Noises sound louder you’re hung over,”
someone will tell them.
“My father was a math professor
at Michigan State,” another will say.
“And he never learned to tie his shoes.
He spent his whole life in Velcro
and slip on loafers.”

“Velcro?” the aliens will say.  “Hung over?”
“Exactly,” we will say back.

We will be nothing like the aliens
thought we would be, all of our space
initiatives, projecting our messages into the sky.
It’s only when the aliens get here
that they’ll realize how we really act,
sitting around, kissing each other and
saying to the aliens how happy we are
that they finally arrived.

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