Home from school again today,
“Feeling sick?” says my Dad.
I sniffle, a juvenile thespian with
Maybe some kind of cold coming on,
And a nod is all I need; Dad says:
“You should probably stay home.”
Curled up with my books, I drowse
Until the telltale pasta pot
Taps the stove; Dad wonders
If I’d like macaroni and tomato juice
Or maybe some spaghetti with the
Diminutive meatballs only he makes.
Dad’s day-off ritual culminates
In whatever Star Trek we taped
The previous night, and well before
The histrionic singer hits that note
I’m a caterpillar on the couch,
Hot bowl of noodles in my hands.
What’ll we see today, Dad? Apollo?
Or the Tribbles, or Trelane?
Or Jack the Ripper or Harcourt
Fenton Mudd, or the Horta, or
Pregnant Julie Newmar, or maybe
The Gunfight at the OK Corral?
What happens to Kirk? Who cares
As long as Mr. Spock is there
To reason, doubt, and analyze,
Unafraid of the bitter choices,
And absurd costume changes,
Required to see the mission through?
Or will it be that sad episode
Where he must break the heart of that
Smart Romulan lady captain,
Or leave Jill Ireland in paradise,
After hanging like a fool from a tree;
It seems logic always has its price.
But no it’s my favorite: “Mirror, Mirror”
And I get to see Uhura with a dagger,
A louche scarred Sulu, and best of all
Bearded Spock, still the wise one,
His Luciferian logic intriguing
His clean-shaven counterpart.
Thanks, Dad, I might just nap here,
Full of spaghetti and meatballs and
Questions about alternate universes
And moralities; perhaps in the Mirror
Universe every kid stays at home
To get a quality education.
Dedicated to Leonard Nimoy (March 26, 1931 – February 27, 2015)