The universe must love when animals rise up and think,

because it has fun testing the bald monkeys.

We are cosmic underdogs, the longshot bet of the galaxy.

When you look up from the absurdity of chasing colored paper

and making up excuses to hate your species,

you see the stars watching:

unblinking, intergalactic eyes

who don’t want to miss a second of the circus.

Yet there is a nobility in the self-aware beast

who stretches up from the muck,

who makes the most of being sentient Big Bang dust,

who exists for a millisecond in the still-expanding emptiness,

and raises an insignificant fist of defiance before the inevitable end.

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