Ghost in the afternoon, the moon dangles,
a pocked trophy my boy pretends to drive.
He dreams of monster trucks
and something cool to blow up
come Fourth of July.
At light, the moon snatches at wild grass,
lost behind a cracked 4×4 and battered box,
crucified by steel-toed shoes
and the bitter bite of teenage-
In the numbing night the moon flickers,
dented, muddied, a metallic hubcap
racing from a magenta-crusted
mountain, a bruised fist,
a pregnant wife.