Sun slotted somewhere inside the sky's back pocket,
Dunes like clouds, horizon sheer black on black,
Our car's a convertible low-powered rocket:

That headlit patch of tarmac's a makeshift compass,
The only remaining landmark,
Gravity's last token against fathomless dark
And space. At least to us.

In science fiction, if not in fact,
Some TV-eyed alien physicist charts, perhaps,
One more smudge-shaped flying object,
Capsule-type core at once intact
Yet vanishing a mile per minute
Along its own tracks:

Or perhaps not. Fact re-overtaking fiction,
Flight's brought back down to earth
By acres of petrol station,
No-nonsense neon,
Some wheels in a stolid stack.

An attendant unwittingly frowns welcome;
Humdrum trucks, a long-handled jack,
Those flattened cans signal, ounce by ton,
The plain wonder of gravity regained,
Planet still in place.