Monday the Moon--A Diary
A quarter white and bright against blue charcoal skies,
Not a cloud, cirrus or otherwise to cover you.
Do I see your “man” curling on his back?
The little dog pulls on a web night leash,
You are half, behind drifting shadow mists,
Does your “man” carry a sack?
Disappointment reins as night clouds gain,
Gain the sky for their own, yet perhaps
Your “man” is covered with a blanket of foam.
You burst your fullness, say “Here am I?
Keep your eyes peeled to the sky,
I know you, I’ll guide you “man in the” home.
Yes, my man carries a sack full of lucky stars.
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