The moon is a maniac, after that it all comes easy,
and the only snake left is the one I walk along the spine of
down Barracks Street each night
where wandering husbands eye female passersby.
The moon is also ossified as I take my preordained place
on the barstool between Ave Maria and Crazy Dave,
while Mark, the d.j., takes requests,
most of them unprintable but fascinating to contemplate.
One of the lads said the moon was a tart
because the sight of its round self
makes horny old dogs howl in backyards,
but Father Ryan disagreed, saying the moon
is merely like God's eye peering into every crack
and crevice of our bedroom walls to illuminate
our all too numerous sins.
The moon is eternal, constant, in an inconsistent manner
like blue moon, sweet thing, be bop, do wop,
draining our glasses fast,
the sweat on the outside kissing our palms,
then smoking and dancing slow,
laughing into the darkness,
ashes into closing time.
I say the moon is a communion wafer
a child pocketed and brought home,
hoping it would grow into Jesus like a severed starfish leg.