-before even the Moon-

When we ran out of nails
We used some Carpenter’s glue
Yellowing-stiff with age

I found on a dusty shelf in the cellar 

On a weathered flat of corrugated
To frame an opening.

The deeper problem of converting the Evinrude

Outboard with the rust-covered housing

To work somewhat harder than it ever did

When my Uncle Frank used it 

To power the peeling twelve-foot smack

Over the lillie-padded

Still water of Fog-Land, was overcome 

By the confidence I maintained 

In the mission.

I’m going to shoot this baby to the Moon with me in it,

And Buddy Woycehowski's going to help me do it.

The uncle was long dead. 

But his brother, nearly a stranger,
Thought I was crazy.

He kept asking me how I came to have the Evinrude,

Which he thought should have gone to him
After Uncle Frank's passing.

I promised he could have it
When I returned from the frozen

Stone of the Moon.

Sunset on the horizon dropped fast 

On the junkyard, laying in waste

Behind the backyard, painting the rust-

Headed wrecks

In covers of their own patina;—

The incandescent 

Street lights turned on

And the kids were leaving the parks.
So I climbed in.

Buddy Woycehowski readied the cherry-bombs

For a loud ignition and lift-off,

As I screamed the countdown to blastoff.

This will make my name.

Sundown found

My father confiscating the cherry-bombs

From Buddy Woycehowski.

My uncle’s brother, the guy I hardly knew,
was awarded the Evinrude on the spot

Which he never came to claim.

I stumbled from the Pod

As my Grandfather stumbled up the stairs

Dank from the cradle of the cellar asking if anyone 

Had seen his glue.

My Mother shouted us to dinner from the open

First-floor window at the clothesline's pulley—

With an invitation to join us

Extended to Buddy Woycehowski.

                                              Quequechan