The moon falls from the sky
like a cookie from a toddler’s hand.
The dogs are no longer maddened by the night
and I am no longer in love with poetry.
My muse is a withered rose. My pen a gull
who has lost faith in the loose alien sands of verse
in favor of some sea of sense and being, so there it hovers,
above the page, too tired to touch down.
If only I were a comedian.
A politician. A knave.
If only I were someone whose lies affected lives
that I might ensure that the weighty falsehoods we’ve endured
were at least wrapped ’round
some kernel of truth
and not so