The moon stalks the stars,
high heeled pacing contrarian,
whips a strapped sun
behind closed curtains;
candle wax dripping,
wiping splinters from our eyes;
safe word: our point of origin,
all of us are immigrants from Mars.
Concrete wilderness,
cellophane everything,
ancestral memory
and astral projection,
cavemen circle
cave-paint paintings
as much an insult
as high praise, and yes,
in a not-so-distant past life
I was the easel of Monet.
Modern chandeliers
adorned with the bones
of Renaissance patrons,
gold-trimmed handrails
with broken tiles on the ceiling.
Silver pitchforks placed
astride the salad bowl,
just so,
when Frankenstein’s Monster
marked maybe, expect a no-show;
that said, please RSVP,
we’ll take our samples,
fold napkin to a rose,
light a candle to science,
take your keys, hail a cab
and let you go.
Wouldn’t hurt to loosen clasps
and flip telescopes about,
ban the night skies in Latin
and observe lullabies for earthworms.
“much too soon”, we think,
sorting beanie babies from rubble
having trouble wrapping boxes
or heads around such breaking news:
she identifies as a woman
not a man in the moon.
carbon monoxide is my favor flavor for vaping,
music turned up, noses turned down.
a poem for the night sky (has anyone wooed her?)
only asking because it seems she can't stand to look at us anymore.
Written for free-verse poetry maven 
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