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Rocket Man


Death is at the door, the Reynolds Wrap
blade of her scythe slightly bent, her mom
on the sidewalk with a cup of warm beer.

The trick is perspective, but it's tough
to view the world as if from outer space
while holding to your love for what's in it.

At 2 a.m., drunk, I step outside. Orion
hangs objectively above our dark house.
I recline in the yard and count down.

A jogger wakes me just before dawn,
fearing I might be a corpse. I tiptoe
up the stairs, hide out in my study.

When I finally descend, no one
seems to notice my pressurized suit
or the crater I made on reentry.

My wife eats leftover candy from the bowl.
Our infant son teethes on a rubber skull.
The neighbors dismantle their graveyard.

Coffee's on the counter. I fill up my mug.
It's the cracked one that says I Love You.


Owen McLeod

Hayden's Ferry Review

Fall / Winter 2016


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