Since she's on duty tonight, the Moon
Has asked you to accept, if it arrives,
A dream she's been expecting. In it,
She is not an orbiting mass of rock
Just over two thousand miles wide;
Neither is she a goddess, lovely
And made more so by the knowledge
That she cannot be trusted. Her dream --
She won't mind if you try it out --
Is of being a widow with a pension
Living in a small apartment. Sometimes
She listens to a radio which believes
It is still 1947. On sunny days,
She takes a short walk and then rests
On a wooden bench (always the same one).
She closes her eyes and pays attention
To the passing voices of cars and of people.
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