Wishes Under the Moon with My Son

a poem

Moon by Darryl Elliott

I sat out back beside my son.
The moon burned clear and high.
It looked like someone punched a hole
and let heaven through the sky.

He asked, “Have you seen shooting stars?”
“Two at Riverbend in Glen Rose.”
“Did you make wishes?” “No, I just watched
their bright fire come and go.”

“I’ll make your two wishes now,” he said.
“A basketball game with me.
Then we can hit some punching bags.”
He spoke so easily.

“And race some cars again,” he said.
“That makes three wishes, son.”
He looked at me. “That last one’s a hope.”
The moon kept shining on.