The Moon Then Mars

The moon is a broken-down car in the front yard of Earth.

The Moon Then Mars

The moon is a broken-down car
on blocks in the front yard of Earth.

It doesn’t work, and we lack the skill
to fix it but still
can’t bring ourselves to sell it.

The ruined car the moon recalls
recalls the dreams of travel
we once had: big trips to beautiful

and faraway places, more stylish
commutes, street races
we hoped to win, people
we hoped to ride with in.
No matter how reality intrudes,
dreams we’ll never relinquish.

Plus we’re afraid if we did
put the moon up for sale
no one would buy it. We’d
rather have to mow around it forever
than know it’s worthless.

Mars, on the other hand, is a car
for sale in the next town over
just as broken as the moon
but, technically, an upgrade,
at least according to the specs
in the online listing we’ve been eyeing,
and though nobody could argue
we need another car
we’ll never go anywhere in
the asking price isn’t unreasonable.

There’s just something primally
appealing about owning anything
we can get a good deal on.
It isn’t because of what it is
that we need it, but because of what need is
without object: painful and infinite.
The dream of rescuing anything
from disuse, giving us hope for us.

Tomorrow, we’ll get a ride
from someone we know with a truck
and a trailer, and go pick it up.
All we need is a few billion bucks.
A sum we can easily borrow.