Wonder
On summer evenings,
Nicky Kanellis and I
would sit in his
family’s garbage shed
side by side, where
the cans usually sat,
waiting to be filled.
It was just big enough
to be the cockpit
of our spaceship.
Plastic football helmets
were the only
spacesuits we needed,
and the open side
of the shed gave us
our control panel,
all imaginary levers
and buttons, as there
was no Star Trek yet
to invent the touch-pad.
Although this is not a poem
about alien abduction,
you must understand
that what happened next
is for real: no metaphor,
nothing of the kind.
A ship appeared, above us,
in the air! It was silver,
of course, and cigar-shaped.
It came to us end-on, over
the western horizon.
We could see it
through the control panel,
and we knew we weren’t
making it up.
We were beside ourselves,
and even if its attitude
had changed slightly,
so we could have read
the message on its side,
it wouldn’t have made
any difference.
Wonder is wonder,
even if it’s sent by Goodyear.
We, of course, had
never seen a blimp,
though we knew for certain
what a spaceship
should look like.
I know we ran
to our respective parents,
babbling.
They might well have thought
we were speaking in tongues.
I don’t remember
who explained it to me,
or even if anyone did.
An awareness of wonder
was the heart of the matter.
—Chris Kruegler, Ayer Road
