The geese on our dinner plates
but implied progression.
Would bear with me
as I declined, protested,
Would still be there
under a cold meal,
‘I’m going to pretend
it’s a fried egg’,
I’d announce, meeting
the golden goose hunger.
Under the tablecloth
was sky-blue Laminex.
Under the table was ether.
My father slept in striped pyjamas
like all the innocent men,
his sighs filled the spinning, pin-pricked, backlit
house with the Apollo 11 Moon Mission, lifted it
like blackest, brightest America.
The moon as yellow as the film of gold
on Armstrong’s Zeitgeist visor, planishing
as my fingernail across the dripping bowl’s
Sea of Tranquility; and smiling Einstein
whispered ‘death’ into my little shell-like ear.
There is a stalking red fox in the loungeroom;
a Royal Doulton Flambé. I have decorated the net curtains
with green gold Christmas beetles and weightlessness.
Armstrong’s Zeitgeist Visor
1 September 2013