Rockstar drunkard coping with easy gravity.
An unsteady child, his footprints litter the ground
like biscuits. First to this dustbowl beach he’s brought
his postcard flag, and wrinkled lilo suit.
The emptied eye of his face stares back,
collects the vacant space beyond. Shadows
stream from his feet holding us to his place
in history. Beyond the earthlit circle of his day
the cliches gather moonlight in the darkness.
The photograph my mother took of me in front
of my grey rusty Ford that cost her Seventy
Pounds cannot be found. The Instamatic
I bought her for her birthday would have taken it.
It too is lost. I stood beside the driver’s door,
the first of many times, and looked as if
another day would come. A smile or grin
would part fill the frame. The car would do
the rest. Her pride and love would not
have noticed any itchings to be gone.
Armstrong, Aldrin and the other one were up there
snapping at the very time. First steps
upon the moon, or miles in my first car.
Mankind will not forget. Exciting times
for human enterprise and care they were.