Between the Moon and the Sidewalk by Tyler Gobble

I was the first to tell you the moon is not a hole
in the sky. Twelve years old, the blip blip
of your light up shoes. You climbed higher and higher
in the apple tree on your front lawn.
The fruit is the freshest at the top.
Hey, bring me some too, I shouted,
never any good at climbing, like you,
saying so close, kicking the tiny apples down,
each one hollowed out by ferocious ants.
Your body had a shape for the first time
that night. Your mother’s 9 cats and their 81 lives
climbed with you, the green leaves and brown branches
spotted with your foot sparkles and the splotches of white, tan,
grey, black kittens, them too making their first trip
that high. Today, outside a window, I saw you
staring at a tv broadcast of the recent shuttle launch,
exhausted fire trembling the ground, pointy tip
like a finger shooting up. I slapped your back, said,
how about that, pal? The sound thudded
like the drop of old old fruit.