Bumbling, But Well-Meaning,
Moon lumbers across the sky:
old man with limp and a crooked grin
with nothing to declare.
Appreciates the joke, but doesn't recognise
the butt (his own face in a mirror
would trigger no spark.)
White features towards us, he's
oblivious to the horses bearing down,
but is pleased for all the attention.
He waves back; can't interpret panic,
doesn't even notice he's squashed the sun
like a beetle under a boot.
Moon pauses, as if something had occurred,
but the past dribbles from his memory.
He shrugs, resumes his journey.
The beetle waits till it's safe again, then crawls on too.