Brian Rosenberger

The Astronaut

Martians, my ass
He tells anyone within shouting distance,
Between the quiet and his next shot of whiskey,
As the TV fluctuates between porn and preachers,
Orgasms and the End of Days.

Who knows what’s real?
The bartender ignores the Astronaut.
She’s been ignoring him for a decade.
If he gets out of hand, if anyone gets out of hand, she has a revolver in reach,
A Smith and Wesson, just like Dirty Harry.
Good enough for Clint Eastwood. Good enough for her.
And a Louisville Slugger, signed by Hank Aaron.
She loved the Braves, played softball in college.

The bar itself, a graveyard, most of the stools and booths populated by ghosts.
Sometimes by the random tourists, seekers of greener pastures,
Optimists of a brighter tomorrow.

The Astronaut holds court to anyone willing to listen.
Always eager to sign an autograph, take a photo,
Or have an in-depth one-on-one session back at the hotel.
You’d be surprised how many hotel trips he’s taken.
The End of Days after all.

All he has is time, time at the bar, time for those who remember.
He walked on Mars and survived. The Martians did not.
He and his crew killed all those green-skinned sons-of-bitches.
Every man, woman, and child.
Or so his story goes.

That which shadows Earth now, not fucking Martians. Not even close.
This is not revenge and not his fault.

Fuck the Government. Fuck the Politicians, and their Fucking Lies.
He was there. He shoveled the Martian soil. He buried their green corpses.
He’ll testify between shots. Whiskey preferred.

Between the End of this World and the next.