Moon Writing at the Next Table (2)

(from the moon series)

It's rare to see a moon writing these days, especially a moon
writing in public. And I'm writing in public also. And we're waiting
for the processions. I wonder

if the moon writes about companionship. About romantic weekends
in Paris under the stars. Can't you see the moon at the top of the Eiffel tower
peering over the ancient city? Or perhaps taking a coffee

in a tourist café near the Arc de Triumph? What a lazy tourist moon.
Or falling for some handsome Frenchman whispering lovely words
on a flowery spring night? I wonder if the moon feels lonely.

What a lonely moon. Writers are attracted like magnets
in public. I wonder what language the moon speaks.
Probably some combination of high German and Spanish. Ah,

but there's the moon's daughter, a young one with a toy
in hand. And she puts her pen down. And she closes her moleskin.
And I put my pen down in the mirror and sip Mahou.

The moon's lips move and the words come easily to my head.

Summer Thunderstorm Moon Minneapolis

(from the moon series)

-for Josiah-

by the river looks up the driveway, sees two boys
lounging on lawn chairs, thunder rumbles and their lips
are moving, clouds shift back and forth, sporadic
cover of the last light of day fades and rain drops fall.

Garage door open, the boys with Shandys in hand, before
the torrential future, before the weight
of decisions, a small moment of peace and laughter, when
the settled earth did nothing but turn.

The boys talk, the words of music and souls, Hemingway
and Carver and worry. The moon leaks
serenity, clouds obscure its view, the moon squirms
to frame the picture, the boys under garage cap, dream

inside a dream, under wet summer thunderstorm
warm nights Minneapolis.