Rocket at the moon Jennie E Owen

Jennie E Owen

Rocket at the moon

Who cares about the gauzy ball, shivering in its dawn taffeta; it’s all too obvious negligee. Not least billionaires, who at best, find it blocks out their pointillist star views, their satellite dot dot dashes. They might argue it hangs, only fodder now for fallen song writers and poets (pity us) or, a spectacle for the last young lovers, when they look up confused and rare from their phones. (No cheese even, up there) It may stir the tide, rock the last old fishermen to sleep, encased in creaking timber, but who are we, the past to stand in the way of better Wifi? We’ll line up (virtually of course) to buy tickets, ordering telescopes and binoculars, Pulling our infants onto our shoulders to peek through 3D glasses, through screens and phones. The explosion (not to be missed) will be fact checked replayed relayed on tik-tok youtube, Re-enacted. Redacted. Removed. Even the rights to this, are theirs alone.