I imagine that Pluto will have a street named Park Lane
just like the one in Jersey where my father grew up,
where my grandfather parked his Lincoln
with a back seat big enough for five children,
where the Murphy’s lived across the street
having cocktails on the back patio
while the kids made noise on the lawn,
kicking balls and riding bikes back and forth.
I imagine the neighborhood will be called Maywood,
after the oak trees that line the lane.
In the summer, the light will filter through
scalloped leaves and acorns high above us.

Maybe we will build a dome on Pluto,
trap a little bit of sun under glass,
like a terrarium, and grow hothouse tomatoes
that are bright and red and beautiful,
but taste like kindergarten paste.
The bubbles our children blow,
crystalline shards of glycerin and dish soap,
drop out of the thin atmosphere and shatter.

I drew a map for them, but Pluto has only one street.

I wish they could leave this place, or maybe
climb to the top of the oaks that line this street,
catch a glimpse of the other side of this galaxy.