I walked upon the surface of the moon.
There are just twelve of us who can say that.

I’m proud that I was second, mad as hell
that I was second of just twelve. It cost
too much to not go on: good men
who died, and those of us who lived to drown
our new-found fame in drink when we got back;
the wives we left behind; the kids who grew
up with their feet on solid ground, while we
worked late—our heads above the clouds. Until,
for some of us, for those few days, we flew.

Magnificent, and desolate; the earth
a bauble; fragile, safe, and out of reach.

Eight days, near fifty years ago, then back down
to this suburban life, this picket fence,
these endless questions always looking back.
“Tell us, one more time, how it felt?” Tell me, one
more time, why you don’t go and feel it for
yourselves? Did we grow out of reaching for
the stars, or tire of giant leaps for all
mankind? We used to think the moon was just
a stepping stone to human feet on Mars.