Barren Moon

I sat in my third-grade classroom
on the floor, legs folded, and watched
the black-and-white screen images
from the moon in the middle of day.

Something important, monumental
was happening on the same screen
where I watched Dick Van Dyke’s
pratfalls and reruns of Gun Smoke.

At home, I sat next to Grandma’s
comfy recliner while she smoked.
We watched Rawhide—dust, cattle
barons, cowboys in hats on saddles.

Grandma’s hand, skin leathering
hairline wrinkles on a blue-veined
mesa, knobby outcrops, dry like
the desert, lonely like the moon.