Pumpkin by W.J. Sander

Pumpkin
by W. J. Sander

Pumpkin is a planet.
I live on a planet.
This does not mean I live on Pumpkin.
I don't want to live on Pumpkin.
I live on Pumpkin.

An all orange planet is breathtakingly beautiful.
For about two hours.
Then, for about two days, quite nice.
And for another two weeks
all those hues of orange are pleasant enough.
fter about two months... it's Hell.

I've been here two years.

Two Earth-years.
All units have been un-Pumpkin-ized.

It's inherent in my job here to convert everything Pumpkin to anything Earth.
Of what use is this orange worm, pharmaceutically?
And this orange ore, this orange ion, this orange air,
this orange organ, this orange range?
My labs are full of arranged orange this and disarranged orange that.

I am orange.
This is a conceit.
I am not orange.
Therefore I am insane.

Let's not get into all that.
I am not alone.
There are fellow scientists who don't understand me.
And an orange ape that does.

Yesterday we found something not-orange.
Not even yellow or red.
Blue.
A metal rod.
A blue metal rod.

Someone has been here before us.
From not-Pumpkin.
From not-Earth.

The blue burns.
The orange glows.
I am as paper, white, on which is written:

Everything
is together until alone.
is nothing until known.
is me until you.
is orange until blue.

Bio

If a writing a poem or a story is a time at bat, and getting published a hit, W. J. Sander would be traded. He is a dilettante with a sinecure; i.e., he toys with everything seriously, and works at nothing, frivolously. He was born the day H. G. Wells died, and will die the day T. C. Malken is born. For more serious frivolity, try www.geocities.com/aworldpledge/Sander.html

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