Major Tom’s not coming home. He’s out there
watching with a crystal eye as all his
world grows darker in its lusts for light and
grids for power, to sell songs about him.
Perhaps someday, when they are marking where
the best billboards go where they won’t block this
moon, they’ll find him floating by his tin can,
and call his wife, whose memory’s grown dim.

“Mrs. Tom, the Major has been found. Just,
listen for a moment, dear, and don’t, please,
be upset that we’ve not called before.
He asked us to, but prudence, well, you must . . ”

“Please, understand yourself,” the Missus’d wheeze
“You left him there to die, and that’s the score.”

(I always felt they could done more to save him.)