Robinson Crusoe

I still dream about other people

even though I have been all alone up here

and have been for quite some time.

Last night I dreamt

about someone playing with fire

and burning themselves up.

I saw the blistered skin on their shoulder blades 

looking like wings were going to burst through

and I thought it was a funny play on Icarus.

I dreamt someone had removed all the stairs from a house

and I thought about what that would have meant for Sisyphus.

I dreamt, too, about going to work in a kitchen

and my colleagues suggesting my footwear might not have been 

the safest thing to wear,

and I wondered if safety mattered,

especially my safety.

And when I woke up,

I was confused for a few seconds

as I looked out the window of my shuttle

and stared into endless space,

into void that,

everyone says,

is only getting bigger.

I’ve been alone for ten years up here.

I haven’t seen another person in the flesh

in so long

I’m surprised I can even imagine what someone else looks like,

let alone still have the capacity to care.

Life alone so far away for so long

isn’t something I wish on anyone.

I wonder what Robinson Crusoe did.

I wonder how he survived.

I read once that the real man, the real Robinson Crusoe,

didn’t wear shoes for so long that his feet swelled

when he tried to wear shoes.

Maybe that will happen with me if I ever see anyone again,

but I imagine it will be my heart or my mind that swells

and I doubt it will be good for me.