Close Encounters
  By Charlie Kalogeros-Chattan

I believe we are from Mars, the butcher
said. It got too hot or cold there so all
left and came to Earth, they did, and made her
theirs. He winked at me. I heard his wife call.

Is the pasta out? she asked. Oh, no! said
he. I turned in time to see it spewing
from the automatic maker, the red
arm whirling ‘round and ’round, dials spinning.

They’ll come to save us--just you wait and see!
Again she shouted from the back and then
he left the counter, wrapping spaghetti
artfully around his arm. I asked, When?

When all is lost and moving on appears
the only way. He had flour on his ears.