Does the Moon Have a Problem?

Hiding, a stowaway that breaks free
only when the Earth is clear, lifeless.
Every being enveloped by dreams
beneath Egyptian cotton sheets
in homes like clustered colonies,
flanking each tar river street.

This town has been infested
by a pack of somnolent fools.
Mindless forms that crash at dusk
with the weight of anchors
sinking upon plush pillows.
As the sun bids its farewell
to this society that slumbers,
I stay awake.

I stroll outside; take brisk steps
toward the weathered poplar panels
that comprise this swinging bench.
I stare up at the crescent moon;
his face turned as if to say:
"Please forget that I am here.
Continue on as if I were
a shadow among the trees."

The shame with which he hid
his head high above me
buried deep in charcoal clouds
was enough to unwind
the fraying threads
of my bored heart.

Though I related to his pleas
I could not ignore his presence.

Gently sucking in I watched
as the streams escaped my throat
in one river of smoke
that rose in a weightless flight.
Journeying on I knew they'd arrive
soon and tickle him along his neck.
He'd act surprised, maybe scared,
but I would know that for an instant
he almost let himself smile.

"Lighten up," I scream from my porch.
Night after gloomy night
I wait until I start to see
my smoky fog blanket slide off
his formless face until at last
four long weeks have passed
and he finally stares back.
For the first time I see him

luminescent, like shattered glass
gleaming in the August sun.
A crude, desecrated paradise
of which I am the sole witness.

I exhale for a good, long time
while the swing bench creaks
content in my knowing
he's no longer afraid.