by Nick Gisburne
We drift in space, resources running dry
But hope returns, a relic of the war
The visitor is seven stories high
A hero, one who saved us once before
His curses, unexpected, echo loud
Repelling steps to dock him with the grid
Admonishing an ever-anxious crowd
With proof of all we said and all we did
The bureaucratic barons, nervous now
Dissemble when explicitly accused
Instead they ask the what, the when, the how
Provisions will replenish those we used
The robot is more blunt than we assumed
“No help. No food. No future. Earth is doomed.”
