POEM

The man-in-the-moon has been worn out

with trying to sleep with one eye. The sun,

giving him a hot foot, the way that the sweet

milk of romance will often curdle, or the way

that a groom or bride gets cold feet before

the wedding day—the use of last year’s brains,

deflaming, fleeing, & say, the bride, just standing

there in expectation like a stuffed owl,

looking as if she had fallen into a barrel of flour.

One must be careful to green-light romance

or else you may end up with a pocketful of rocks.

There are people that would rather be put to death

than put to shame, but at least they are controlling

their own tempos. On the contrary, there are

those that look to always be holding the canteen

in the blistering desert, that keep their “rank”

in a shrine, that build around their values.

Then there are those that will say, “Welcome to

my neighborhood” but are unable to remember

their house number. Yet still, through it all,

someone is thinking, “Instinct is usually always right,”

& the sun still shines as brightly as ever

& the moon’s illumination still ripens the night,

& most importantly, the moon still has her man.