Moonlight, Out of Order

Moonlight, Out of Order

Tonight, the moon forgets its job.

Streetlamps hold a meeting,

decide to take overtime,

and pour their small gold salaries

onto the sidewalks.

¤

Shadows wander unsupervised.

They try on wrong bodies,

stretch across closed storefronts,

practice being oceans.

¤

In the park, the pond keeps the sky’s seat warm.

A stray cat wears a comet for a tail.

Even the bench looks up, patient,

as if someone might clock in.

¤

I keep waiting for the silver switch—

that soft click the world makes

when it remembers itself.

Instead, the dark hums like a fridge,

reliable and oddly tender.

¤

Your name would usually tidy this.

It’s the word I use when lights flicker,

The fuse I press with my tongue.

But the call box blinks red tonight:

Service Temporarily Unavailable.

¤

So I learn to see with other parts.

Palms read the braille of bark.

Knees memorize curbs.

Breath counts intersections of crickets.

¤

A window two buildings over

opens like an eyelid.

Someone waters a plant with a pitcher that glows—

phosphor, not moon,

But it’s enough to gild the leaves honestly.

¤

I walk home by rumor:

the smell of rain rehearsing,

the quiet arithmetic of my steps,

The door brightened in its own wooden way.

¤

When I reach the switch, I don’t flip it.

I stand in the nearly-night and practice

being lit from the middle—

a pilot flame, unshowy,

ready for whatever name Dawn gives back.

¤

If the moon calls in sick again,

I’ll know the route:

How to lend a little brightness,

How to return it clean,

How to keep walking even when

The sign says OUT OF ORDER.