That moon’s got some nerve.
Of all times, now it chooses to come by?
Look how massive it is,
Showing off its dazzling brightness,
The dips and dimples of its ruined face,
As it rubs up against us like
A creep in a nightclub.
Roaming the sky tonight,
Fat with promise, full of itself,
It taunts us with its freedom.
I’m bricking it when I go a smidge past
Two-kay on my daily walk,
An excuse at the ready:
“My Great Aunt Bridie’s cocooning, Guard.”
Can I tell you something?
My Great Aunt Bridie’s not real.
Two things, though, about this supposed super moon.
It’s definitely not pink, and for all its daring,
It still won’t let us see its dark side.