|
Through the Back Windshield
By Ash Bowen
the world looks
like any other small town. This 1959 fin-fixed
Cadillac is a space ship. We’re blasting
the radio. The last moon transmission came
from Modesto. Darling, I know you send me.
Mother, I have a problem.
Try and hold it. I know
there’s a milk jug if I can’t.
The motel is the moon shot
on the back of a rocket. The astronaut
we’re meeting is not
my father. In Oregon, the waitress calls me
Cutie-Pie and puts down two creamers and a spoon
shined on her thigh. The astronaut will count down
5-4-3-2-1 the bites I have left
of my hot fudgey. Last time he gave me
a half-pack of Wrigley’s. I chewed until they came
out, my mother’s face red as an apple, his smile
like one on TV.
We’re blasting off the last part of the highway.
We’re heading for home. Father is filing saws
for wood they’ll never use on the moon.
.
|
