People think its the landing (a star-man's sonnet)

All those G’s, though not as many as many think,

the cheeks rippling in waves, a like a deck of cards

flicked, the isotonic heart pushed into the back

of the cushioned chair, considering the heck with it all;

the outside metal red-hot, a fluid shell of consideration –

“should we explode?”  The fear the angle is wrong, that the rocket

will bounce off the atmosphere, careen back into the void

with no more control than a pebble skimming the pond.

There is something, I grant you, in the landing, intensive heat

and free-falling, rockets stalling, and a peculiar acrid smell,

as if the devil’s  devious hand wafts hell’s painful promise

across your nostrils, but the landing, in the end, is the easy part;

the difficulty is the decision to return; all star-men recognize

that taking flight, and remaining absent, is the easiest option.