Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence

I'm writing upside down with the space pen, listening to the rain. My wife is writing about the Black Death and its effects on Art, and asks me “Where are your pants?” They are on the floor in front of our new couch, where I arrange them to spell out L-O-V-E. A vegetable, mystic thrill runs through me— the couch is something's antenna. It bears good love to us here over the laundromat. I'm waiting for the Light Beings to remove my roof. Our bedroom is lousy with clothes spelling out greetings if anyone's up there who can read English.