this is not another moon poem

though she's bright in the mild sky
high above the last remnants of sunlight
covering her face with veils playing peekaboo

with a broken psyche all full
of herself. it's like iving
with a too young lover who behaves
like his lessons are yours to teach, like

this money thing, i don't know
what it is about tax time
that dries money up, has it playing tag
at the gas station, hiding deposits
in frigid winter conditions, but i'm glad
there was enough for stromboli tonight.

lesson one, everyone has to eat.  like the mosquitoes
that hover near the tablet's white screen
 i wonder if they believe it's moonlight
 descended to  their level or maybe they think

they ascended to whatever heaven
mosquitoes imagine because they're
 gathering at this bright white light
 like easter sunday service is about
 to begin and  they have no choice
but me as their lamb.