“It’s not dust, they’re fines,”
A grizzled veteran will sigh
Nearly every time a fresh meat newbie
Complains about the stuff,
Wondering why the ads on YouTube and TV
Never mentioned the Misery of Mars;
Why the cute girl in Emigration
Didn’t warn in their interview how
The damned rusty crap would get everywhere,
Clagging up their hair; drying up their throats;
Stinging in the corners of their eyes;
Scratching their visors no matter now hard they tried
To keep them clean;
Clogging up the seals of gloves and boots;
Staining their snow-white cost-a-King’s-ransom EVA suits
Fifty shades of rust within a few sols
Of their giddy arrival.
© Stuart Atkinson 2018
