Rockets

The Rocket Mob goons 
came calling,
thrusters tapping
on the bodega counter.

“Nice gravity well
you got here.
Sure would be a shame
if something
happened
to it.”

Engines revved,
and the desperate victims
paid
all they could
to keep from being
boosted.

32/365

A version of this poem first appeared on Bluesky. Whispered into the acoustic sensors of the sleeping dreaming android, it prompted the electric sheep to generate one more tomorrow…

The AI rendered the poem as a pair of astronauts at a corner store with encroaching flames and smoke.