I'm building a spacecraft in your backyard
mostly from old toilet rolls and tin foil
you sit on the back step
reading People magazine
occasionally glancing up at me
and reading out the names of the stars that
will come with us
"Brittney Spears?" you ask.
"No", I say gently, matter-of-factly. "She's pregnant. You can't fly in space when you're pregnant."
You keep flicking for celestial companions and you look like every birthday present I never got
I turn and look up at the sky
and I wonder if love is simpler
then I ask you
to pass me another roll of tin foil.