One of us is dead.
One of us sleeps in his van, parked
at the curb in front of his sister’s house.
I’ve just retired.
In the morning I walk through
the gray woods
listening to the birds, amazed.
Disbelieving.
On Earth when you put down a cup
it stays there, as Scott Kelly
said when he was
living on the station. But now
everything I let go of
floats away.