a moth dive-bombs the porch light like that bike courier
delivering a letter written in 1986 as clouds loom over the face of the moon
dew whispers as it falls, tasting of promises forgotten; it feels limp in my hand
midnight feels like a mournful train horn in the distance
heard by Jack Robinson walking Seymour View Road, alone
at least I have a clear view of the moon
we kept chickens and chased the fluffy yellow babies
no retweets to worry about
because blue skies kept the snakes at bay
strong food and strong drink at midnight
the only advice my Aunt gave me
alcohol making better judges of character
than the electors who studied law
she’s a babyblade
that will take on the day’s lonely job
of sharpening grass and bleaching clover
because cars can’t go where the people don’t wander
toegang verboden!
the wheels cry as they rust in uselessness
the moths seeking the streetlights are silent
//a poem based on this writing exercise.