David Moolten

Goldilocks Zone

Sweet spot for life on foreign worlds, 

it’s like peach schnapps at an outdoor cafe, your date 

going so well you want to call your ex, 

not to make him jealous, 

but because you told him everything. 

Surely he’d want to know the galaxy

was sunny and seventy 

just as with him when he was one of those

other people you’d begun to see. 

It seems the opposite of a perfect storm 

also fits the definition. He only hurt you

once, though if you grew apart 

in an instant, you can’t explain 

why you spent the night 

with someone you shouldn’t have

for years, like this, your mind somewhere else. 

You’re nostalgic like an astronaut 

for the ruined Earth, saggy beds 

and tepid oatmeal God would spit out 

because none of it matters, wars or money 

or if you locked the backdoor.

You’d gladly take the next best thing 

back to his place and wake bickering like birds

in paradise where it sounds like singing,

the great migration still ahead.