Moon Wrestling – A Poem

Moon Wrestling

I wrestled with the moon last night
when he came into my living room
his light, dim and spontaneous,
splashing silver streaks on my wall
and fine leather couch.
His filthy fingers
were placed in an unloving embrace
about my neck.
I tried to gouge his eyes,
but he just laughed like a cat,
licked his teeth,
and sang a soliloquy in French
that I did not understand
a word of.

With overwhelming strength
he bore down on me
and asked me my name.
Breath smelling
of rotten mango.

“I don’t know,” I said
“It is too late to think of such things.”

“Come on Jackie,” he snarled
“Come on. That golden bitch will
be here soon.
Show us something worthwhile
to come all this way
down here for.”

He reared up and became
as if a cloud had passed
from his fat face.

His grip was still sure
but unbalanced
and I managed to fling him
off me
and he crashed
into the side table
breaking my lamp.
Taking full advantage
of his awkward situation
I struck
a hard right on his
dimpled cheek.

“Ah, see, there it is. There it is Jackie.
There is still some fight in ya.
Some life yet.
Now get us a drink.
And be quick!
My sister’s morning glories
are wilting anxious
impatience for the dawn bloom.”

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