THE DAY MEN WALKED UPON THE MOON
The day men walked upon the moon
my father died,
attended kindly by an unloved wife
who, for charity in the face of death,
the bitterness brewed of life.
Dry-eyed we watched the television;
flickering pictures from outer space
But behind my eyes on a white pillow
was only my father’s yellowed face.
Death, like love, in our family
is decently disposed of
without undue commotion.
Tears were shamed to silence long ago.
There is no superfluous emotion.