What if Neil tripped down those famed steps
One small st-
And collapsed in a heap of vacuum-resistant debris
Cracked glass and aspiration
Shame-sweat beading on his brow
And the president’s hands hit his horseshoe forehead and he frowned like the big man he was
And the mayor pounded his fist against the mahogany recently polished by the secretary
And the wrists of socialite women hit their foreheads and they gasped and crumpled on to couches white with scrubbings
And the children thought he was ducking-and-covering, just like Ms. Merryweather said
And the Haight-Ashbury hoodlums didn’t notice because the needle was already sunk in like incisors
And the traitors giggled fuck-you's in their colonies festering like mold?