Big Comet

History loves its comets. The fate of nations has turned
on these hairy ice-balls paying gravity’s debt to the sun.
Halley’s is a clever one—like Woody Allen’s Zelig,
It turns up everywhere, poking its way into the picture
as momentous things happen. In the Bayeaux tapestry
ISTI MIRANT STELLA captions the little cartoon figures
pointing in awe at this avatar of Billy the Bastard’s luck.
It ushered Mark Twain in and out, some stand-up comic’s spin
on the Nativity, with a punchline. He would have liked that.
But lately it seems big comets have lost their white plume,
quietly withdrawing from public life like God did.
Overhyped Kohoutek fizzled like a wet match in my youth,
and when Halley came back, the year I turned 31,
it failed to live up to its reputation, a tired old performer
who just wants to sit this one out, let the young take over.
The moon is pulling back, close to two centimeters a year.
Let us sit in a circle and praise big comets. I see a trend here.