Because I say I do.
There are wolves, for sure,
and loons up late. They hoot,
black charcoal shadow cartoon fools
whose gloom assumes
we, too, mourn loss of bright
There are none, though, walking ways
of cratered, corduroy, rolling, dust-grey
hills and basins. Peaks and vales
like battlefields of grim grenades
and silent, sentient cosmic chum.
And I say, "Pay!"
You lovers on my white-glow leaning;
you hunters creeping, deer-spoor seeking;
you children peering, â€œOne day,â€ dreaming;
all who look upon this, frankly, dreary, lifeless face,
this wide-eyed, gaping maw of rock and shining, lantern jaw,
you now owe toll!
No more free ride. Pay up. Way up.
The Man in the Moon be damned.
Homage? For the loons.
I own the moon.
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