Plump Orson Welles

pauses to inspect his cigar

his growing church

of satellites

circling in trepidation

for the final word.

Like the starlight

clean and hard

from a source that may

or may not exist

radio waves pulse

from their tower

into the jet-marked sky

flouting the outstretched

arms of our antennae

as they part the atmosphere.

Stout planets twist

from Einstein to Churchill

or slip orbit

to flee the nasal bulletins

of mad Lord Haw Haw.

Even the music cutting out

as your garage door eclipses

another day

coaxed from a weary violin

and proving through the static

to be O Holy Night

will drift eternally through space

shedding its half-lives

and bumping into stars.