Apollo 13

 

Apollo 13

 

Once in Worksop there was a library someplace,

where on a far shelf, lay a dust-jacketed book

in hardback that he’s only took home to look

at a small black and white photo of Saturn

that beguiled - grainy rings of moving things

sitting on a black-drop, so bleak and freezing.

 

Abbey Junior Mixed, age sixes and sevens

with you, Miss Blades, you – in broody, young

hawks hair back-tugged into a tight black bun

and clipped there like your clipped tongue -

if you had a cane, it wasn’t made of candy twists,

or barley sugars – but scored with chalked up lists.

 

Habitual leg shaker; he’s kicked them into fifth gear,

as some minds would rattle for release

and those cramps crawl anywhere but here.

There was that Kevin Bragg, remember? His dad

owned the best BBQ chippy in town but his lad

was first to put the black on you. Only deaf ears

 

listened to any protests – except once.

Grim news – Apollo 13, circling those heavens

high and rumours that they all might die,

something about pills, how brave men don’t cry,

that’s him talking, he’s holding the floor

while you, Miss Blades are considering a response

 

and Bully Bragg stands hesitant by the door.

Later, a class writes to astronaut Jim, in command,

crayoning wax-scrawl in small and tall hand

which maybe they’ll mail to Cape Kennedy.

Years from now, there’ll be a film - Tom Hanks -

and some kid looking back on a book with thanks.