Wave
goodbye to the moon;
it’s
another day.
What
it’s still doing in the sky
this
morning,
God
only knows.
There
goes my neighbour
with
his dogged pooch;
sees
me waving;
strides
off for his News.
The
moon’s an insomniac,
I
want to shout,
not
that he’d be interested
in
rumours like that.
What
makes each day turn
is
anyone’s guess:
if
it’s not in the headlines,
it must be somewhere else.
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