In the old days villagers banged
their woks with sticks of wood to
drive the dog away into the night
but odd now that so few look up
I use this finger to point holding
her from behind my head resting
on her neck I say we’re pretty lucky
& then we both walk back into the bar
& then we both walk back into the bar
Take deception to the limit, trying
yet again to pour joy into the intellect
the memory of other eclipses
following quietly behind
These days that effortlessly fall
away to nothing save their return
tonight the Moon is bitten by a dog
& all that I can say is we’re lucky.
© 2011 Rob Schackne
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