Forbidden Planet

You crash-land on this airless asteroid of a life
dressed only in diaphanous rings
and the faint vapor of your perspiration.

I hide from you on the dark side.
Only when you sleep curled up in a crater
do I dare creep near.
The albedo of your skin dazzles me.
I secretly examine every millimeter of your surface,
mapping your contours and continents,
so astounding in construction.

For twelve years I have languished, shipwrecked.
The bright penny of the Sun provides light but no heat.
Each year, each orbit, another bit of me abrades away.
Now I am mostly mechanical, built from replacement parts.
The movement you see is hydraulic reflex.

I monitor your transmissions to HQ.
You request RESCUE, OVER,
but get only cellophane crackle in reply.

I think, I could rescue you.

But in your weekly soliloquy to HQ,
you whisper something about about THE MONSTER OF THE ID.
Rapacious, three-eyed, embellished by fumes
and clad in a rubber mask.
Maybe you mean me, clomping in the dark,
constructed of irony and silverfish thoughts.
When you stand and uncurl your limbs,
the entire tiny planetoid whirls until I am dizzy.
I retreat to my dark cavern
to await the turning of another, braver
morning.