Moon Fishing

The city lights wink, and cars bob over bridges.

I perch on my boat and cast a line into your rippling

reflection. What would we do, moon, if you visited?

If you popped up with my fishing line, smooth as an

Oreo cookie. It would only be for one night, because

I know you’re busy up there. 

You could be a beautiful balloon bobbing over my

shoulder. We could stroll by all the children waiting

for moon dust magic, the children who sleep on cold

floors and hide in the back of classrooms. 

You could whisper in my ear about what heaven

looks like, if the view is any better from up there.

We could dispel that cheese myth too, I know you

don’t appreciate it. 

Then we could glide by restaurants where lovers

snooze, and light up the dark office corners where

fathers and mothers hide. 

I could pull that flag out of your ribcage. I love

my country, but you don’t belong to anyone. 

We could slow all the young people that hurry, hurry

on, who have forgotten they still live under you.

We could cheer up the elderly who need to look at

something new.

We could warm the hands of the homeless

whose nights are cold and long. 

We could tell this frantic world to hush, hush, hush.

We could do a lot of things, moon.