Son and Moon

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-

triggered twenty-twos.

 

In the numbing night the moon flickers,

dented, muddied, a metallic hubcap 

racing from a magenta-crusted

mountain, a bruised fist,

a pregnant wife.

****



Categories: Poetry, Selection: 2019

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