They shot a tiny spaceship at an asteroid
going about its business seven million miles away.
They sure knocked that rock off its trajectory
though it was never coming near.
And since you orbited out of my life,
I’ve wondered about the nudge that made you leave.
On my journey to the bottle bank,
I see among the greens and browns
the one we downed before you went away,
its label chewed by hungry snails.
I pause, then free my hand,
and hear a thousand slivers screeching in the dark.
Like metal on planetary rock, glass on glass
changes the shape of things.
Bill Richardson is emeritus professor in Spanish at the University of Galway, Ireland. His poems have been published in numerous poetry magazines, including 14 Magazine, The Stony Thursday Book, Orbis, The High Window, Skylight 47,Gyroscope Review, Flights and Crannóg. Poems of his have been finalists in three poetry competitions.