Rocket Boy
from Shoulders, Fibs, and Lies ©2008 James S. Wilk
He’s close to giving up. His breathing’s clipped.
He curses to himself. Three times he’s glued
the engine mount within its cardboard rings.
Three times it’s come apart when he has shoved
it in the body tube. “Let the glue dry
first, Connor. Half an hour and it’ll slide
right in.” Snorting, he glares at me and lays
the gooey little cylinder aside.
His hands are bigger than his mother’s now.
He wants to launch, to fly, to leave the pad
scorched and smoking behind him on the ground.
“Work on the parachute or fins instead,”
I offer. Silence. “Well…I’ll let you work
on it yourself.” I wander back upstairs.
My left knee aches. Downstairs, for the first time,
the radio thumps hip-hop through its speakers.
The doorbell rings, then rings again. It’s Kaitlyn,
the tall, coy neighbor girl with breasts, whose voice
quivers when she asks if he’s at home.
He stuffs the rocket parts inside the bag
and tosses it beside forgotten toys.
“I’ll be outside with Katie riding bikes!”
Off goes the radio. Slam goes the door.
The countdown to the launch has now begun.