Estimating the Probability that a Star in Andromeda Will Collide with a Star in the Milky Way

Chewing a bagel, viewing the crumbs 
scattered like tiny points of light 

in the dark sky of my ceramic plate, 
I ponder the distance between stars. 

In the forty years before I lived alone, 
The Milky Way and Andromeda have been 

spinning toward each other, like a pair 
of circular saws in a horror movie. 

Astronomers predict the two galaxies will pass 
through each other like ghosts. They say 

the vast emptiness between even the closest stars 
is like the gulf between a single marble floating 

over New York and another floating over 
Honolulu. The chances of any sun 

in one galaxy colliding with any sun 
in the other—infinitesimally slim. 

About the same odds, I figure, of me 
getting a call tonight from a certain old flame, 

to say she’s missed me and is now available 
if I’m still interested. A more likely event

is a collision between two crumbs on my plate 
that are bound to jump up 

any moment now and crash together
like freedom and loneliness.


Last Times

There’s a last time for everything. You’ve always 
known this. You’ve been thinking more about it lately, 
as friends fall or fade away, as time saps your powers. 

You’ve read that astronauts living in micro-gravity 
lose muscle, weightlessness sucks at their bones.
That future missions into deep space may render Earth 

uninhabitable for those who live long enough to return. 
The same thing is happening to you. The day will come 
when you drive a car or read a newspaper 

or put on your socks for the last time. Someday 
you’ll attend your last concert, last birthday party, 
last football game. You suspect some lasts 

have already happened. You scored your last touchdown 
a long time ago. You may have caught your last fish, 
said goodbye to your last lover, kissed your last kiss.  

Your doctor said you could die in your sleep. Hearing this, 
your friend said don’t sleep. Chances are you haven’t 
had your last headache, heartburn, or colonoscopy. 

You hope your last will and testament does not require 
an army of lawyers to figure it out. You hope 
you haven’t yet seen your family for the last time, 

haven’t had your last glass of beer or last hot dog. 
You hope your last supper is not a hot dog. There’s 
a last time for everything, but you don’t want this 

to be your last sentence. So you type one more.