We have a problem.
Are we forgetting something?
The moon climbs,
and somehow we can’t
quite seem to place the face.
And this happens sometimes.

We have a problem:
the moon falls
just out of reach, between the hills,
like one of the golf balls
from the old Apollo mission.
Did we leave something behind?

We seem to recall—there was a flag,
artificially stiffened
because there was no wind.
And a little plaque signed
by the president, Nixon.
In five o’ clock shadow,
he lost the debate
to the younger fellow,
but now the darkened face is on the rise.

Are we forgetting something?
Did we leave someone behind?
One of the astronauts, the handsome fellow—
Apollo?
No, that was the name of the mission.
The name on the little plaque had to be Nixon.
And quarters, halves, bits of loose change
wink—sink between the cushions
of the distant hills.