Doodling With The Moon

From silvery sliver to well-frocked roly-poly
geometrically perfect yet pocked and misbegotten
you ride the night sky for headless horsemen
and drive crazed men into werewolves then hang
plump and juicy over cars on lover’s lane
in your inconstant phases you are the lunacy
we love which cows jump over while the dish
runs away with the over-rhymed spoon scooping
all but a sixpence croissant from the paper
loon sailing over a cardboard sea tugging tides
and sonatas with your forty-watt bulb trailing shadows
down alleys having dropped and multiplied in puddles
on cigarette streets while hounds howl their silhouettes
and a tenor sax wails its blues in the indigo noir
to serenade us with Sinatra flying on gossamer wings
bouncing you like a toy balloon across a river
where a huckleberry friend waits around the bend
under a harvest of green cheese in the teahouse
of August which is a small step over Miami and a giant leap
for all the kinds of Mondays yet to kingdom come what may.