By Christopher Barnes

Sparky Mark, the holiday rep
crept into crabbedness,
twisting himself
into a sloth-shouldered space helmet.
No more body-popping,
trap-clapping about.

The space walk globe-trotters
were life-weary
with his sneaking gag-man blurts,
smutty babble.

No more clouds-on-horizon games
rollicky in the skylab go-cart.

Captain Strop was strapping
re-Marking too much glee
upset him,
squelching each joke’s punchline.

Black dust. Chemistry-high jinks
drag such a blackhole life,
but the vacuum loves him
cut loose from the crowd.