I don’t write poems about the moon

I don’t write poems about the moon,

or space whales,
or cracked spines and unicorns–

but I did glimpse it shining in full blood,
very late, the night before last,
a new penny showcased in the black velvet sky,
behind a gauze of branches–

a deathly quiet all around –no fox bark or sound of any living thing,

as I stood too near the street light,
a parka thrown over my nightie and plimsolls on bare feet,
persuaded by a science nut (my husband)
to come out and take a peek–
all I wondered was what it must actually be like
for people living on the street–

like that lady shrouded in a big russet coat
who stands so still in the shadows by the trolley shelter
of the Tesco car park,
one hand resting on a shopping cart as if she is about
to leave–but no one is fooled.

Day after day, night after night,
does she gaze at the moon above,
or care how special it is tonight?

Our front door on the latch throughout–
keys left indoors–I was profoundly grateful to get back inside
and climb into a warm bed.

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I don’t write poems about the moon

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