Wyatt Winnie

Saturn rings
around cul-de-sacs,
adhesive radio waves
jamming, jamming

transmissions from
Neptune to Mercury searching
for staticky reception and
confirmation of alien life.

She’s wrapped her
tentacles around his
enchiladas, something
his friends can’t believe,

not on Monday or Tuesday,
despite the Wednesday
proclamation of his love.

They’re just feelings,
he says.
They’ll go away.

But on Thursday
he’s swimming on
his motorbike in
a giant spacesuit

and eating one last
taco before a
midday blast off.

She’s wrapped her
tentacles around his
enchiladas, worse
than even Cthulu,

this Pluto girl in
human skin, yearning
for his attention, but
just too damned alienated

to ever tell him
she loves him back.

Wyatt Winnie kicks it with books and students most days in the library of a southern university. He dabbles with words, both in prose and poetry. You can find him on Twitter at @wyattstombstone