Catch my tongue

Earth tumbles.
Inside his bubble, Spaceman sweats;
remembers his mother. Luna waves goodbye.
And he writhes like a new-born, adorably:
ballet-panics across the stage of the sky.
In the corner, his tin-can ticket –
back to Sunday lunch
and long endless summer,
and the smell of her sweat and “daddy” –
fades, to a dot, and is gone.

Joe Hedinger