Rehearsals For Space Poem by Peggy Hapke Lewis

What if those bleak mornings
when you are plucked from sleep
by sonorous bump and groan
and sucked into the vacuum of a black hall
to land in your alien kitchen
are only rehearsals for living alone

and in that slot of time
decisions to make a pot of chocolate,
consume seven figs and an omelet
and watch “Arsenic and Old Lace” one more time
are seeds of a life you may inherit
when you are flung from promenade deck
into the hold of the unknown.

What if you admit that part of you
craves the sunless solitude
reveling in silent rooms you tour
like a traveler to another galaxy.