The Third Man

The Third Man

The moon men came down in time for the news.
Four. A woman’s hands busy at the bench

of pumpkin, spud, out of sight of a boy,
five, small. Occasional drawl of a moon man

above the white noise, of suds sucked down
a plughole, space laughing in the black gap

below Apollo Eleven. The boy
told his teacher he’d be Michael Collins,

the third one, orbiting, silent. Twice, because
she wasn’t sure she’d heard what he was saying.