by Lucille Gang Shulklapper
At night, the man in the moon
draws packs of howling dogs,
wanting his veined blue cheese
atop his mountains of withered leaves.
He spends his days at the race track, betting
on long shots, hearing the thunder of hooves
crack his lunar brain, wanting garlands of
roses, creamy brie in crystallized cups.
Sometimes when night becomes day.
and day becomes night, the dogs and the horses
change places, and the man in the moon
hides his face, or shows his hand.