Behind the counter of smokes and energy
Booster drinks at the auto shop, a flat screen,
Diagonally no bigger than half a yardstick,
Ran simulated pictures of exploding stars
As the clerk struggled to press the right icons
On the screen of her register and an addled
Young white man in worn ball cap and work boots
Tried to make charming small talk with her.
A clipped, Oxbridge accent enunciated
From the television’s tiny speakers. “Neutrons
From these dying stars are pouring through us
At every moment, unawares, as if we were not
Even there.” The clerk and the young man
Took no notice of the voice, but finally told each other
“Have a good one,” as two packs and a ticket
For a multimillion-dollar lottery jackpot changed
Hands, along with awkward glances, as if we,
As if the news of neutrons were not even there.
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