No Room on the Moon!
Dreamed 2014/7/7 by Chris Wayan
Thread through crowds on Fisherman's Wharf,
then hike alone up Pacific Heights. Tired at last
of mansioned streets stair-steep, I long to ride
the crescent moon home--cratered hide,
ten yards bow to stern, nautilus-gliding up our hills.
Muni buys the old moons cheap; refurbishes
Rusty smiles. Bananapeel to old-bone pale
depending on the smog back when. No squeals,
no pothole wear. Moons need no wheels;
It's a big tourist draw, though, the moon.
Here, a "month" now just means an or-
Can't blame a horde that loves the town I do.
The crescent moon descends. Tourists shuffle on.
NOTES IN THE MORNING
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