Uncle Wally doesn’t care about
orbital mechanics or translunar injection
or any piece of that vast and unimaginable machinery.
Every capsule he pictures is cozy as a kitchen, awash in light,
and his comrades are floating in the air beside him,
his confidants and friends, they are all bobbing and floating in air,
checking off the checklists, confident as dads.
There’s a knock on the door the morning of launch
and everything’s just like Christmas,
the house cleaned up and put away,
everyone on tiptoe, smiling.
Outside, in the darkness,
the silence is as huge and gentle