It’s 8 a.m. and a full moon shows its face
above the blush on top of the maple tree.
Floating in a sea-blue sky, somehow
it’s forgotten to set. I’m so distracted
by this distant sphere, I catch the wrong bus,
hustle along Grandview Avenue to find
the right one. Along the way I pick up
a stray penny and a D.A.R.E. button
urging me to resist drugs, violence,
booze, marijuana, things that make you fly.
No mention of the moon tugging me
wingless into the blue. No mention
of the moon pulling me from my daily
routine. No mention of the moon refusing
to run away with the beautiful dark night.
From the book, Knitting the Andy Warhol Bridge by Ann Curran, LUMMOX PRESS, 2016.
(Posted 2017 August 12)