Waning Gibbous

A poem.

I wish I put more stock
in the stars.
The moon, meridian, mars,
mercury, midpoint — 
elucidations for the W word.

Why Monday? Why
would she?

And I am back: 
wall of windows,
Mandarin Bistro,
blue speckled laminate table,
red lines on the back of thighs.

JCPenney lunchbox
unzip, ice pack, 
Honey-wheat Sara Lee, 
smushed crust, 
crunchy strawberry 
peanut concoction.

Why do they leave?

Bathroom stall, 
back again — free time
the bane of all times. 
Inconspicuously stuck.

Was mercury in retrograde?

Is it now: flashbacks oozing,
mind boozing, trying to forget.
Knock it out. Cut it out.
I wish I put more stock 
in Apple. In constellations,
confirmation I’m not
a consolation prize.

I’m the last one you’d call, 
why? Why? Why?

Red is the longest, dullest
wavelength in the spectrum
to be wielded while 
looking at the stratosphere
in the black sea of night — 
it won’t bruise retinas
while eyes probe the moon.

I am waning, too.

Previously published in The POM