Ground Control to Major Mom

A rocket waits to fly

From its launchpad

In the living room.

Helmet on, radio in hand,

Two explorers approach.

One room over

Crying pierces the countdown.

Mom rushes away

Leaving me,

strainer on head,

Alone

With an overturned hamper.

The countdown resumes.

My fellow moonwalker,

Returning from a ‘last minute

Emergency procedure,’

Tells me to enter the cockpit.

Five, Four, Three, Two, One…

Shaking furiously

The ship ascends beyond Earth.

Moon drawing near,

I try to radio Earth…

The phone rings.

I’m left to traverse space

Alone,

Again.