A Statement from the FAA to Mr Bezos

With regret,

Mr Bezos, blasting

up for a ten-minute

stint doesn’t net you

fresh wings. Yours

were of a weaker print

(cardboard mesh

and rocket fuel),

wiping sweat,

but you knew, yet,

that you came down

easy.

You would cast

yourself from the

New Shepard

to hear the backs

of angels creak

as they catch

you by the

heel. Snatching

stars won’t

ripen your

crusted fruit,

still bitten,

still primed,

your original sin

was, sadly, ill timed.

Sorry, Bezos,

but, we thought,

you simply are

no astronaut.

Besides, Mr Bezos,

we know you’ve

resigned, but

we’re waiting

on a package.

We’ve been

waiting

for a while

and it still

hasn’t

come.