Tuesday, March 1, 2016


I’ve read of a woman who believed the moon
Was her first husband. When it was full
She would stand in the street and yell at it
Saying it had never loved her. As it waned
She grew kinder, called it pet names,
Urged it to come inside or, if it insisted
On braving the night air, to at least
Put on a scarf, a coat, some gloves.

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