This is my third poem of week two of the online retreat.
I just want to sleep but have no place to stash the full moon.
When the last one fits in a corner of the storage shed but this one would strain the boundaries of every armadillo hiding in Texas oil fields, you can see where I might have trouble.
Taking a picture is out of the question;
while the image fits well within the frame,
the soul of the man in the moon requires
considerably more conceptual capacity,
along with two cases of Perrier and several hundred baggies of grapefruit wedges.
Even the metaphor is exhausted, having slept too long between canonical signatures.
Every time it blinks now, it sheds enough feather barbs to tickle the unexplained mass of steel wool orbiting the scrapyard in Everson.
Meanwhile, the man in the moon continues to complain
about the crescent shadows from the last partial eclipse;
I didn’t trim my nails that day, so I don’t know why he’s whining about it to me.
I’ve got my own peccadillos to deal with—
‘colorless green ideas sleep furiously’ has already been taken.
That and fishing with a dotted line and catching every other fish—
which has me thinking about teacups and existentialist dummies going on and on about the nature of time,
and boy, if that ain’t an invitation to a snake in a rattle factory.
Or that lid that won’t go back on the jar properly.
If this were Egypt, the army would have taken care of this months ago.
Then again, if a certain someone had rolled a six last time, this would be Egypt, and the full moon would be someone else’s problem.
(14 October 2020)
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