Today, we’re awash again, and the moon is one day short
of a quarter. From the train, I can see the moon drop
his lunch on the intersection. Ride low, dear moon, like
all those tire tracks through salad greens. The driver says,
from her sun-spot, go home moon, go home, go back
to bed. Today is just not his day, she says the moon, today,
rides low, on a bike with a loose-looking chain, and a bag
that won’t quite close—all his glass containers
shattered in traffic like so many
stars.
BROOKE SCHIFANO is a poet, currently working on her MFA at UMASS Boston. She lives in a small house with her cat and her person.