Bluesky

First, they didn’t let me on the moon. Then didn’t let anyoneafter a while. So children let their dreams get smaller, enoughto fit the pocket of the jean jackets each generation woreevery time they invented irony. Soon, in the cities, downin their white noise canyons, people got on with the getting on.Looked at their feet, mostly. Or they practiced glancingslightly away when eyes met accidentally on the train.Like shoes under a table. Like sheep bumbling a mountain pass.The trick, we learned, was to pretend you’ve always beenlooking just over your stranger’s left shoulder, readingfor the thousandth time that list of things you’re not allowed,hoping there might be a prize in it. People got used to doing lesswith less. Hoarded their sorrys. People learned somethinghappens to an old friendship when one visits the other’s citybut doesn’t give notice. There are reasons for this, always.Business to attend to. Kids in their ironic jackets to shepherdsomeplace new. I used to think the moon lived west of the earth,which was why you’d see it after the sun went down. I studiedthe scriptures. Became convinced that’s where they hid Edenfrom us. This was back when I too believed in big punishmentfor small mistakes. Then I saw the moon forget itselfin the day’s sky as if waiting, like the rest of us, for an apology.