Driving out 281 toward a shot in the kneeI heard the news
The moon is dead
There was no hesitation, no doubt
This was good news
Contamination no longer an issue
No need to pick up trash on the moon
License for astronauts to sneeze
or even puke on its face
I have an affinity for the dead
an impulse to chronicle decay
every day I snap a photo
a cactus morphing in the alley
indifferent partner in the dance
of weather and neglect
Dylan is my favorite dead person
his Bubba my favorite dog
I keep an altar
in his room and in my heart
and sometimes see them rambling
on the slant side of vision
peering into the window of the library
from the salivating darkness
I almost hear
"Must have tacos"
as I unlock and re-lock the door
and step into the storied night
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