from The Depression 

The rocket never knows what to do on days off. He wanders the blocks of downtown, eyeing the same displays in the same windows. He stops by the bookstore & flips through that copy of Chalmers’s The Conscious Mind he’s been thinking about buying for months & then thinks, like every other time, that he should read a book he already owns. When he was little the rocket rowed a boat to the center of a lake & lay his ear  against the boat’s metal bottom. The lake water slapped, but below that he heard the dull hum of the lake restraining itself to being merely a lake. As night fell his mother called from the shore. Bats scratched the sky. The metal’s cold hurt his face but he wanted to keep this hum inside his ears, to intend nothing inevitable. When the rocket is called upon to be a rocket the fret & fear vanish. He is slid into position. He can ignore the lilting radio. 
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