I blame the moon
for my lack of restful sleep lately.
Or is it Mars Retrograde?
Or is it warmer weather?
Or is it Donald Trump
becoming presumptive
Or is it China? Or Russia? Or Paris?
Airplanes fall out of the sky,
scientists make meat in a Petri
dish, and a woman
wearing a Chewbacca mask
laughs uncontrollably
in the face of us all.

I lay in my bed with heavy legs,
kicking off the blankets
and pulling them back on.
I dream of waking in a bed,
waking from the dream I am in.
A single tissue
dangles from the hallowed echo
of an empty toilet paper tube.
Someone thought
they wouldn’t have to change
the roll
if they left that one ply straggler
for your sorry ass.
It’s the tricks they play.
It’s for the win.
“Sorry for your loss.”

Still, I don’t blame you.
I blame the moon.
It sits up there, full;
mocking every empty part of us,
down here. I wish I were the moon.
I wish anyone
looked at me
the way
they look at the moon,
when it’s full and bright
on a cloudless night.

written on 05/23/2016 by: Matt Kane