Copernicus

What catastrophic blight made you forget
Who you were, Copernicus?
What made you lose your mind,
Your knack for seeing stars?
Those far-off worlds you pointed out
That night in Krakow,
When we were drunk and looking for someplace to eat.
“There’s Jupiter,” you said, before you threw up at my feet.

The office life is not for you.
Your student innocence became you,
More than your suit and tie,
Your combed hair, your sobriety.
What awaits you now? A house-and-car,
Something comfortable, and not too far,
No doubt.
Now you venture nowhere,
And, when you look upwards, see only ceiling tiles.

Perhaps when you are at the neighborhood barbeque,
Talking to the Fosters from across the way,
The conversation might just veer off course,
And somebody might mention stars and galaxies.
Will you remember what you have forgotten then?
Will you put down your beer bottle,
Forget your office job, your mortgage,
And your fancy car – forget all that!
Will you look up again and see the stars?