No Pop-tarts on the Moon
There are no Pop-tarts on the moon, just craters, pocks, and scars, no water,
no oxygen or blackberry cobbler, no breeze. When you asked me to join you
on a trip there, I told you these things. "It's better than California," you said,
"or seeing the crater in Winslow, Arizona." I can't breathe on the moon, and
I'd eventually run out of asthma medicine, and you'd want to smoke. It's not
a good fit, so you go on. I'll stay here and take care of the dogs. You don't
know how long the trip will last, what you'll do if you encounter problems,
and there are always problems. "It's an adventure," you reminded me." But
we can have adventures right here, around the corner on the Street of Shame.
"It's not the same," you say, shrugging your shoulders, wearing that silly cap,
the one that you found in the roller coaster in Barcelona. My adventures these
days are on the tips of my fingers, inside my ears, the pool, and the Hawaiian
barbeque shack over on 6th Street. I am wearing adventures in my new shoes
and don't feel the need to jump off of a cliff into a treacherous ocean of teeth
and bone. Tell me all about it and make posts that will help me curl my toes.