The third man not on the moon

 

I’ve always thought of Mike Collins

circling above Neil and Buzz

as they performed their moves

on the lunar surface.

 

That would have been me:

the one in the wings while Hamlet

strode out on stage to give

his stepfather his due.

 

In Cambridge, 1983,

neither the KGB nor CIA

knocked on my door –

not even the sixth or seventh

 

or eighth or ninth man –

so, of course, nobody

looks twice when

I get on the trolley

 

even though my beard

appears to have

Marxist aspirations.

America’s shouting

 

as it always has –

war on earth (Vietnam, Iran)

and space distractions

conveniently arriving.

 

Oh, Mike, I think of you,

how I stayed up all night

to watch that American flag

being unfurled by someone else.