Touching the Moon with a Ten-Foot Pole
Andrew Demcak
Heroin? Perhaps you’d like to appraise
that white place, its sky alight with fire?
Ground Control, here is a missive in lieu
of a rendezvous. The craft is ready,
syringe and spoon attended, a mother
ship. Mission failure will not allow for
rescue, standing on the lunar surface,
homeless as a nervous horse, absent of
habit and launching pad. Attempt your fresh
trajectory, approximate distance
to join the moon’s orbit. What power!- And
because it’s not hope, a dead astronaut.
