The lamp I’ve mistaken for moonlight makes me think of a boat (a poem)

Today’s late entry. I got such an early start on everything this morning that I didn’t set aside time to write anything until a few minutes ago…

It feels like
such an old-fashioned word,
doesn’t it?
Nobody says it anymore
unless they’re reading a book,
talking about history,
or hoping to conjure up a genie
from an antique.

But this is the word
I have chosen;
I may as well get used to it,
because that’s how I thought
of the floodlight
coming through the bathroom window—
and how lately I think of it
every night,
even though I don’t look at the moon anymore,
and it’d be on the other side of the building
if I did.

Also… I don’t think you can call
Tom Hanks’ raft of luggage
in Joe Versus the Volcano
a ‘boat’—
though it does have enough
buoyancy
that Leonardo di Caprio
would still be alive
if he’d had it in Titanic
instead of that door…

I’m not the seafaring sort anyway;
give me the breeze,
but I hate the smell of the ocean,
and memories
to which I’d rather not return—
and the moment
you single out the moon,
you turn it into an object
that can be discarded.

The sky will not empty so easily…

(23 June 2017)

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