Next Best Thing

Next Best Thing

Our parents were astronauts

of two extremes.

Every vacant lot

where we used to play

started boiling over, so

we grew up (in word only)

against the prognosis

of a possible plague

of perverts arriving

to snatch us.

We were unlabeled objects

on the pavement

sculpting our silhouettes

for the trap,

babbling and babbling

until we vomited

the true value of silence.
At the end of the space race
reality always exceed fiction.