Galactic Ferry

My thirty-fourth voyage, alas;

I nod to the void as I pass.

The only light here in space

here on the bridge, lights my face,

green glow bleeding through old glass.

Of this my passengers have no need ;

their dark no light will impede.

They rest beyond knowing,

or warming, or growing,

corpses moved by their last act of greed.

If a spaceship’s your home, you fly

out the airlock when you die.

Whether rich or poor

you’ve no need for more,

and that’s noble enough to my eye.

If you’re poor on a planet, make due.

Find your six feet among all you knew.

But if riches were your lot

the fashion is to rot

on a planet long lost from our view.

Earth is a forgotten home,

from which we long ago took roam.

Some treat her a god

made of rivers and sod

and yearn to return to her loam.

But who’s seen it? Not one but I,

the ferryman in the sky.

I know the desolate girth

of our barren Mother Earth,

green only to minds turned awry.

I dig the graves in the ice.

There’s no beauty here, only vice.

They’re shaped sharp and crude

the bodies laid down nude ,

drowning in snow for a price.

And yes, this job eats me alive .

Dear Earth, how I dread to arrive.

But the money is great

so I’ll call it my fate,

and return for voyage number thirty-five.