We’ve sat all night on a worn wooden swing

under the magisterium of the moon

shouting at each other as we always have:

hippie, fascist, terrorist, dictator,

parading our premises, demanding clarifications,

me seeing white crosses, you morning glories,

me children with doomsday skulls, flies on their faces,

you tots in a semicircle caroling evergreens,

me gutted tanks and half legged men,

you welfare bums, spoiled brats, guys with limp wrists,

girls who only need to keep their damn knees together

For once, let’s just lean back in the balm

and listen to the creaking of rusty chains

A solution may come to us another night,

moon or no moon