Once I was a planet,
then an asteroid;
I’m now a dwarf world hurtling
across the frosty void.

Named after the grain goddess
of Rome, I roam around
the sun, yet I’m way dimmer
that Vesta, so you’re bound

to miss me. I’m much smaller
than Pluto or your moon;
yet, though I’m rather tiny,
it’s me who calls the tune

amid the motley muddle
of dust and rocks. I’m scrawny
compared to the gas giant
who’s kisser is as tawny

as the feathers of a frogmouth.
His gleam surpasses Sirius’.
Just like that star’s companion,
I’m mightily mysterious—

for I’m the only boulder
in all celestial rubble
who talks. And I am helpful.
If your spaceship is in trouble,

you can always make a landing
upon my icy hide
or hide inside a hollow.
You’ll be quite satisfied

with the view from my old body
(which exhales water vapor
when close to Sol’s refulgence).
We’ll frolic and we’ll caper

along this belt of wreckage.
We’ll frisk and prance and rollick
in a zone of lonely stones,
outcast and melancholic.

Then you may wet your whistle
on the water percolating
from beneath Occator crater.
Too salty? Not so sating?

It’s all I’ve got to offer.
I’m just an asteroid
(or maybe a dwarf planet)
tumbling through the void.