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 orange

and hardly terrifying—

more like a lollipop in the sky

that I admire

in the dark.

The moon is a harsh mistress

and

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

because

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.

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