The Man in the Moon
No light on the one way street sign
my father, whose name is, was, Moon, claims
drives steady into the rod of traffic
hands slick from the beer bottle sweating
between his knees. He walks away
without even a bruised knee
enough insurance money for a flight to Vienna,
my mom, fresh robbed by the last man she didn’t want
to have to trust & no family to worry how swiftly
she turns toward the Moon
so proud of the money in his pocket
casually paying for her
playing the guitar on the floor
a cigarette in his mouth. How charming
this Moon can be. How romantic
his gestures, the thin work he makes
of the ocean, sweet talking like chocolate
opened in the heat.
***
Author photo by Sarah Phillips
