filming the moon landing

​

I man my spot, stage right, my thousand-watt lamp

ready for ignition, crosshairs pointed smack

 

at Buzz’s empty boots. Kubrick’s late,

as usual, but I’m used to waiting on the benches.

 

The crew breaks for weak coffee and gossip. Loudmouths

saying the Soviets landed back in ‘59.
 

That there’s five dead Cosmos up there already. Am I supposed

to believe? Conspire and commiserate?

 

How much further do these guys need to go

to prove who owns the world? Burbank’s enough

 

for me. How can we land a man on the moon—

with all Disney’s money we can’t chase down a deadline

 

or keep the coffee hot. But still. When my spotlight hits

the unmanned lunar module sitting there I forget

 

how to breathe. It’s a bird drained of blood,

some pale crouching beast of tranquility.