A lady at work told me “It’s a full moon—
that’s why all the kids have gone crazy,”
and even though, I’ve been looking at the moon
on my evening walks
I don’t think about it.
It’s been big
and hardly terrifying—
more like a lollipop in the sky
that I admire
in the dark.
The moon is a harsh mistress
she kills in the shadow of her white dress—feigning purity
I try not to look up it,
for fear of what I might find—
what so many men have already found,
but she tempts me
she’s a temptress.
I open my meeting, laughing
“I forgot, I had a meeting today,” I said
and nobody laughed.
I am unaffected, by her lunar gravity
at least, I think so
or maybe, I’m crazy.