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.

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