She was a babe. And, for one night only, she was mine
out in the desert in the summer of sixty nine,
Creedence Clearwater Revival on the mess jukebox,
Conig suiting up for his comeback with the Red Sox.
She was wasting time dabbling in hillbilly millponds.
I unearthed her, dragged her out of the back of beyond,
draped her in cream silk, dusted her with mother-of-pearl.
Made-up, she was really something from another world.
When the 20,000 watt Fresnels flooded the tent
she eclipsed every other star in the firmament.
The night before she was due on set I crept back in
and knelt down in front of the reflective Scotchlite screen
to trace her basalt seas and breccias with my hands.
As the dawn sun filled her craters I came into land,
left her alone for the big boys from the Pentagon.
And when the next day Mister Kubrick signalled ‘action’
and Armstrong set his size ten boot on her powdered face,
her perfect curves, I cried like a baby lost in space.
Now a dozen cadets have stuck a stick in the whore
out behind that Nevada bike-shed. It’s on record,
on grainy video, splashed on the cover of Time,
her once heavenly body gross, her face a blotched dime.
It’s the same old story. She loves me, she loves me not,
though I hoped it would be different, up to the last shot.