"Join the StarCorps! Join Today!
See the Galaxy! Save the Day!"
Repeatedly the jingle rings within him
as Mark paces about the main chamber
of the small ship shooting from Pluto
to some distant point, a star far off.
“M14967A, appropriately named 'Mia',
a white dwarf that -
Who cares?”
He sinks, sighing, on the sloped bed,
reclining at the recommended angle
listed in the "Legionnaires' Book:
Everything a Man among the Stars
Needs to Safely Navigate Home."
He rechecks his wristwatch.
It still sits at seven-oh-three.
Pushing over to the panel console,
he boots up the book-tape,
listening again with longing unchecked
to the sultry sounds of the reader.
He rechecks his wristwatch.
Seven-oh-six shines dull green.
Pushing to the pantry,
he carefully chooses cubes to mix,
and eats dinner again, against The Regs.
Killing time as it kills him.
He rechecks his wristwatch.
Scarcely past seven-ten now.
Day 483, dragging on.
The port windows permit a look
at stars, unmoving, scattered about -
nothing new, never-changing.
He rechecks his wristwatch.
Thanks to 
Thanks to 
Thanks to @IsleofWrite for providing a place for great discussions about all things writing.
Recent works:
art courtesy of @PegasusPhysics
