Four’ O clock, after mandatory piss ,not groping back to my bed I pass through a good old poet’s shadow bumping into it on night’s balcony where I go to check on clean moon.
The moon has just been siphoned off. The sky persists with its remnants,hardly anyone’s idea of clean moon with the trees below in numb homage,some crumbs for a rag-picking poet.
There was nothing laughable in this as a shadow’s sad steps were heard. A moon can be frittered away in sleep.Happens if we do not get up for piss.