A photograph of my father
in his space suit
sits on the dresser,
tough, tensile, covering
his entire body, but for the eyes.
On one side is a toy
three-stage rocket, on the other,
a plastic replica of the
solar system, with Mercury missing,
Saturn's rings broken.
Once, my tiny hand zoomed
that vessel from planet to planet,
crash-landing on Venus,
circling Mars, rocking and rolling
through the storms of Jupiter.
Now, everything gathers dust,
the toys, and especially the photograph,
still life, that oxymoron for the
modem age, and eyes that stare
24/7, sustained by glossy paper.
So where is he now?
Out beyond Pluto? The Milky Way?
He always said no
universe could hold him.
He really meant no child could.