From an open window
a man is seen talking to the moon
the moon yawns
and would check its watch if it had one.
isn’t there anyone interesting to listen
to at this hour?
but the moon tries to wear its best face
as the man moves onto secrets
he tells of a lover
and memories reduced to a size of photograph
he speaks of dreams lost like a small coin,
through the hole in his pocket
which weighs him down
The moon sighs
and drifts off behind a cloud
it imagines being a cue ball
disappearing down a black pocket.
it would like to be a pink bubble
blown by a child
and snapped back into its mouth.
it wants to be a balloon
that snags in a tree
and is burst by a curious twig.
but the moon is a petri dish of dreams, and says nothing