PP9

The folds of the space-suit crease my flesh
Against the skin of a leather-lipped tortoise
Her deep green eyes study me for signs of intelligence
I am naturally too paranoid to reveal
My shallow protuberance
A moment passes
Civilizations crumble
Back home on Earth
My wife dangles our youngest
From a peg
While a porridge shortage cripples greater London
Loose-limbed oaks saunter
Towards the drop zone
While Errol awaits a message from my computer
I am unable to respond
The tortoise snaps a musty grip on my visor
My suits urine recycler begins to strain but
I notice something familiar about the malfunction code