Some Long Ago Month
The moon climbed into a sky no one warned me about. It was black, with pinpricks
of light that you’d swear were stars and planets. Many of these formed shapes,
figures discernible as great beasts and heroes, many-legged creatures and chariots,
cudgels and belts and pendants. Or that could be interpreted so, if you had a mind
or a need for such things. I did not, by and large, though for an hour or two I
entertained the idea. I lay on my back in the cold grass of the front yard, ignoring
my children’s pleas to come inside, and invented stories from the patterns suggested
in the bowl above. They were frightened, I must admit, and probably right to be.
But for an hour, two perhaps, I was a poet, the voice and the conscience of my
people. The moon lingered a while, then gradually climbed back down and
disappeared. I felt a chill, so I got up and went back into the house.
If You Let Them
There are poems that loiter
on street corners under
lamplight and the moon.
They will rough you up,
just because they can, and it’s fun.
They will chase you
all the way home,
and if they catch you,
they will knock you down
and take your wallet.
Then they will crow
in the bushes
outside your front door.