The Incineration of Childhood
It was nineteen sixty-nine; I was eight years old.
My plastic spacemen moonwalked in sandboxes
We made lunar capsules out of tinfoil.
On Halloween, spacemen mingled
with mad clowns, jack-o'-lanterns, and ghosts.
Santa said ho ho ho from under paper mâché moon glow.
We drank Tang by the vat because the astronauts did so.
My head was in the clouds; I thought anything was possible...
There were starry miracles beyond our four-block world
I believed it because the astronauts told me so.
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