Even Stephen

I think that Steven Hawking is a saint
At least a wizard,
As he chairs his way through time

Stopping now and then to exude genius
And incomprehensibility. The letter
That I wrote him, when he was in Spain,
Was never answered. How cruel.

They still call me heartless
For cursing the day I was born, under my breath.
The shades of drill steel yellow
Grip themselves around my waist.

Tomorrow I will have fallen
Off of the roof
By Two.

But today I am in Spain.