Troubled atom, little worrier,
bounced-about cosmic bumper car,
Who feels your fret?
Of such consequence you’re sure,
you hurling theatrical
bubble of operatic proportions,
bruised mini-mite.
But let’s call you Sandy,
of the sand, you, granule,
dusty fleck lost
in a sunspot,
a glinted speck,
a tiny tempest carry-on.
