Like any rational person, I left earth in a rocket

made of special K boxes. I was in search

of a planet where Labradoodles live more

than 12-15 years on average, cats

look both ways before crossing the street and my dad

is the tallest man in the milky way (which is filled

with nougat and maybe 53 people). A solar system where

you can’t be held legally responsible for anything

you do during the sneeze, and there are no optometrists

to stop the trees existing as lollipops, no adult

to stop me licking them. A broadway cast congregates

every time I play that CD. There are still

CDs on this planet, and Fred Weasley

will live forever with my dog, cat and Grandma.

The actors who make up the news go home at the end

of every disaster, wipe away their ketchup wounds and history ends

with they all lived happily ever after…

I left earth

for always Summer. Filled with the same raw and delicate

knees, and chewed styrofoam cups – bare feet

and flat, golden tummies achieved without drinking

any kale. There are at least four inappropriate

tan-lines and the sun melts every evening

like the worst kind of butter

which would explain all the salt.

Despite all my calculations, the rocket

was a flop – disintegrating

in the early atmosphere. Houston

had all the problems. I landed

back on earth (gravity the eternal

elastic band) and limped home

in time for dinner. Everyone forgot

to ask me where I’d been, which was almost

space. Everyone remembered

I was legally required to eat my eggplant.

The sunset like a science special I hated once.