Rover Finds a Graviton

Rover Finds a Graviton

If someone dropped a graviton
   Rover’s nose would know —
his sniffer is the paragon
   of snouts in sludge or snow.

His schnoz detected one today
   lying in the street.
It didn’t try to run away;
   it was bereft of feet.   

He caught the varmint in his jaws;
    it smacked of moldy shoes.
Because he’d messed with Nature’s laws,
   Earth rushed toward Betelgeuse.

While hurtling past the Hunter’s belt,
   his mouth was getting sore.
Its hardness wasn’t lamb or spelt
   but quartz. A tug of war

developed as it hauled the hound
   through Earth and out. A lead
he couldn’t see now drew him, bound
   for the stars at breakneck speed,

a pace that topped all cosmic tricks,
   while we began to career
down Rover’s path. No horror flicks
   had ever caused such fear!

While tumbling through deep space, he chanced
   upon an exoplanet.
He waved his paws and wagged and danced
   for the coterie that ran it.

Their paws were huge — not four but six! —
   covered by paw warmers.
When he informed them of Earth’s fix
   the pack became brain stormers.

Kept warm by lighter fuel, each glove
   was fashioned by a mind
whose prowess was light years above
   the finest of our kind.

One raised a paw and time was stilled
   for all but them and Rover.
One handed him a box they’d filled
   with chow they had left over.

They said, “This doggie bag’s a gift
   to munch when you return
to terra firma.” Rover sniffed
   the sack. He could discern

dewclaw-licking fare so great
   it made his stomach rumble.
But there was still that leaden weight
   in his mouth that wouldn’t crumble.

Suddenly he felt a zap,
   alarmed from the attack,
as they pried the object from his trap
   and snarled, “That’s not a snack!”

splashed “lighter” fluid on it, lit
   the thing, and all was right.
And then they gave the dog a mitt
   that luminesced at night.  

With antimatter pion ships
   they kindly towed us home,
depicting astral scenes with yips
   in time to a metronome.

After they whizzed away, the brane-y
   mutt knew gravitons
posed far too great a risk for zany
   gravity gourmands.

Now, whiffing one, his hackles rise.
   Though prevalent on Earth,
they’re not like chipmunks, cats, or flies.
   He gives them a wide berth!

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(Originally appeared in The Centrifugal Eye)