Christmas Traffic
by U.A. Fanthorpe
'Three, two, one, zero. Lift off'
Signals Mission Control. And off they go
To the dark parts of the planets
In their pressurized spacesuits,
Cocooned in technology, the astronauts.
Mission Control whispers in someone's ear.
'Yes' she says, 'I will.' And in due time
A different traveler makes a quieter journey,
Arriving hungry, naked, true to instructions,
Docking on Earth, taking the one small step.
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