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Rated: E · Poetry · Sci-fi · #2228749
An alien helps himself.
A white alien came one day from the planet, Material;
he beamed up closet things, our blanket and our comforter.
Then he came back again and beamed up all the pepper,
and even stranger still was beaming fire from the hearth.
We saw his space ship hover above the rooftop;
it made no sound, save for a little bit of hum.

This day the skies are starting to darken;
the sun is shrouded by clouds of gray.
We are simple folk in Kalamazoo;
(He is back now, yet we don’t know what to do.)
It’s said there are countless stars in space,
and doubtless are worlds which harbor life.
But as we sit here we watch things disappear--
there goes our Mr. Coffee pot,
there goes the chandelier!
Thunderclap, once again,
alien tap.

Okay, we take a look and glimpse his oval face;
we use binoculars--he left a light on in the ship.
We hold arms high, our palms to gather raindrops;
encounter closing in, we notice want within his eyes.
I step into the garage to gather warmth;
My golf clubs fade from sight--goodbye to all my Taylor Made.

We are two simple folk amid helpless;
my significant other takes my arm.
On his ship we notice symbols galore;
he is shopping, it seems we are the store.
Wind whips, so we head back to our station;
outside there’s not much more we can do.
Maybe his home world is hungry and cold;
I do not know, yet what I know for sure
is Marie and I are pale.
Thunder clap, once again,
alien tap.

34 Lines
Writer’s Cramp

—white alien
—space ship
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