"In triplicate, he's sent an application, listing grievances, to the stars."
Better them than me.
The drivers all tailgate him.
The government's gone mad.
Dog owners don't know the meaning of voice command.
The stars are in for it now.
Will they weep, as I do?
Dry cleaners destroy his shirts.
Ski season ended too early
due to global stinking warming.
A professional kvetch, I explain, should hold something in reserve,
offer a surprise now and then, especially when dealing with celestial bodies.
Why should they hire him from among the trillion applicants,
rather than, say, the ghost of my father, who now has eternity to perfect
his critique of his stepfather's choices,
alternate scenarios sprouting like dandelions,
the whole duck family of Couldve and Wouldve
marching in procession across galaxies.
Planets ricochet while a mysterious gentleman
hangs up his pool cue. Pockets fill: coins spill.