traveling eight miles a second, the impact 
made diamonds in an instant, exploded 
limestone rock like popcorn, vaporized 
the silicate mantle. Scientists love data,
its cause and effect, but they don’t like
to speculate about, say, one sauropod 
grazing in a meadow on that cool and 
dampish day. Whether it had time—
between the double boom that
masked the bolide’s roar 
and crackle, and the
pressure wave—
to stop pulling up
prairie grasses,
lift its head,
look up,
see sky 
for 
the 
last 
time.
                        

In high school, between 
junior and senior year, 
the county hired me
as a day laborer
to mow lawns
in the park. Fine 
with me, but not Mom.
My daughter is a young
lady and will not do
menial labor all day
with strange men
she said into the handset
of the yellow wall phone.

Whoever got that earful
gave me a file clerk’s job
in the county building
downtown. Much safer,
in my mother’s eyes.
Appropriate. Except 
they put me in the
Probation Department, 
where, dressed in little 
green-checked culottes
and white blouse, I made
copies all day long,
standing next to 
deadbeat dads and men
who violated their parole,
sitting handcuffed
and watching me.