Call the moon earth’s bald accountant
tallying cheap lunacies while turning
a blind eye to secret purchases made of
those we profess to love, and you’ll never
reach for it, life too crazy and unfair.
Then, a part-time father might make it
his mission to have you see differently—
maybe because he balanced the books for
a transit company, his paper moon: the fullness
of something gained, nothing owed.
Inside that circle—fat beginnings,
a wishing well of anything goes.
His window to the inner worlds,
the crystal ball of a third eye that
once opened, could never be closed.
Hang me that moon, daddy, and he did,
when I loved another at my own expense.
Nailed it right inside my head
so the darkness there wouldn’t swamp me.
Made me a lantern, he did.
Bold tides of faith sway fate, he said.
And made my heart a night train
steaming down a moonlit track
all the crossing signals down,
my mind—a field of shadows revelling
in the sudden gleam of lives not realized.
Take your time, he said, fingering his
shirt buttons as he weighted take and your.
Do something with your life is what
I heard, heard it sad inside the wise.