SHE SENDS HIM A MESSAGE: IT'S A FULL MOON TONIGHT

In her mind, so entranced by air,
It is the most passionate of messages
And requires, in response, suitable fanfare:
A tipsy feast tented by the night sky,
Soft, playful hands in bejeweled fruit;
Or a luminous viewing where they are
Suitably wrapped to disarm the chill
In each other’s arms and staged silks;
Or even an unfastening of casements
So the dull, satellite sheen invited in
May be softly laid between
Their warmly-scented skin.

In times past,
She would have
Sent him her message:
Through her cheeky parrot
(or perhaps another more
docile and amorous bird);
Or in a hand-penned note
Poised between the pages
of a brocade-tasseled book;
Or heard by a giggly confidant
Who would give him the words
With a lingering, meaningful look.

It is. A full. Moon.
To…night.
Alas--she sent it to him
Through the tangled vines
Of the everyday internet,
Where its almanac-like
Efficiency traps him
Into unaware apathy,
And he then descends
Into Sunday’s sudden,
Last-minute,
late-night industry.


___