Maybe it was a ruse after all, a man walking
on the moon. The press told of hangers
in the desert, political decisions. The rest is history.

But real or imaginary hardly counts, in a whirl
and daze of new things; a teenager making tracks
on the lunar surface of a summer hotel.

Warned by parents of dangers ahead; black holes,
exploding stars, the inevitable re-entry.
But the noise from the engine of the old Morris

drowned out their words as they drove away.
Then lost in an adult world of work and play
summer passed quickly and soon we were all staring

at the moon. On the night of the landing we watched
in awe, most in their working gear like the astronauts
bouncing on the tv screen. But in the corridor outside

a drama just as great was unfolding. Surprised
and startled by a woman with a lizard's tongue
who pinned my innocence to the wall, gave me

at thirteen my first wet kiss. The summer of '69,
man walked on the moon. I was up there too,
for days they couldn't hold me down.