i do not want to moon
or its rays
that turn some forbidden fire-footed dance on water
for once the moon is down, what should i do with it?
rubbermaid is not prepared
and all it could do is
bob on my soup as a great matzo ball
you soil your one knee down with the bullshit you spout
and offer to call down the stars
catch them in your fists
and set them in gold
as the reminder of
“the diamonds in my eyes”
what would i do with the stars?
glue them to my journal like cosmic glitter
or season my brown rice with them
how clever are your gifts?
yes, these familiar items
tired novelty trinkets of affection (effection?)
words inspired by soft radio hours
spouted by rhyming fairweather sometimes poets
who thumb guitars and clear their throats into microphones
I have apparently never been typical when it comes to dating. Forget the diamond, I'd rather have a book.