FIRST MAN TO THE MOON

My father read a book of mine recently and accused me of not writing all the poems. "This can't be you," he said. When I asked, "Why not?" He answered, "Because some of the poems are written by old men, divorced men, young children...and you're none of those things."

I smiled. Although he didn't compliment the poems exactly, he still gave me a great compliment. It means the poems were believable.

The following voice belongs to a man I've nicknamed FRED. FRED is in his early fifties. He works as a middle manager somewhere. Fred isn't unhappy necessarily, but like all people he wonders if he could be happier. If I met FRED, I think I'd like him.

FIRST MAN TO THE MOON

Using the humming of autumn insects as my excuse,
I put on some clothes and walked into the garden.

It was raining slightly, a falling veil
rather than a tattoo of drops, but it was sufficient
for my terrycloth robe to feel scarcely enough.

And despite the sleeping of the streetlights
and the darkness of the night,
I had no trouble finding my son’s metal tricycle
left unattended on the sidewalk

After a cautionary glance towards the house and the street,
I lowered myself on the slick plastic saddle,
and as soon as I figured out how to propel myself forward,
the rain disappeared and so did the garden,
and notwithstanding two knees to the nose,

I again was Neil Armstrong—first man to the moon.

--Noah Evslin