When Skeletons fall From Outer Space

When I look out that window
that cracked slightly in summer
which seems to make a winter
that is colder than a polar vortex
inside my home
that the bank is coveting,
with avarice and drooling,
and a rubbing of hands
that sound like baby powder
which falls from the sky
like the dust of the bones
ancient and dry
cold and forgotten
with traces of DNA
of ancient space walkers
who lost their grip
when a sattelite went off course,
I see my loved one
carrying my lunch
up the frosty walkway
and breathing steam
which warms me
inside.