As in, if the people there like everyone, even 
the ones they are not related to, if they like
strangers and budding plants, like to hum the songs 
in each other's heads, like food 
too much to chew it, and too much not 
to share, if they like to be alive
more than to bomb or be bombed, like 
visitors, like thirst, like letting it last
ten extra minutes to up the thrill of water, 
brush their mouths with baking soda 
so their next drink tastes sweet, if their games
do not name winners and losers, if no
one must deadbolt a door behind them in fear, 
if no child or adult hears, I did not invite you 
to my party, if people do not exchange 
paper and say, This paper is worth 
so many's unhappiness, if no
night outlasts a day, if no
one oversleeps for sadness, or if 
they do, someone—it's a network
better than any antiquated phone tree—     
some appointed friend lies atop the quilt, 
beside the sleeper and waits, matching 
their inhales and exhales,
            and no one wakes alone. 

So far away and so down
here, we're all rooting for you,
astronaut. We squint toward your ship,
which must be—must be— 
traveling somewhere overhead. 
We rise from these creaky beds 
in our empty rooms 
and stretch the curtains wide. 

​