Mature

I was born, oh, 5 billion years ago. Came out of the wide-spread legs of Ms. Universe. I crawled through dust and gas of Orion's nebula. I suckled the teat of the Milky Way. Then I scratched an itch under the aurora borealis (the American Revolution); stretched an achy shoulder muscle (the French Revolution); and wiggled a foot that had fallen asleep (the Communist Revolution). I have hosted parties for all varieties of dancing beasts. I have felt cities crumble on my head, shoulders, knees, and toes. I have felt premenstrual cramps erupt my molten interior. And still the creatures slither, claw, hunt, and bleed all over my sial. Should I keep up these calisthenics to slim my Middle East? Got to lose these metric tons somehow. Mars has got an Earth Mother Rhythm Band that sings, “Let's rock and roll!” And by that he means we are mature enough, ripe to sound our own hard music that could form new planets. I roll over in my own sun-warmed bed. I'll think about it.