The Point

The moon is sitting in the middle of the afternoon confusing everything you ever learned. It is not wearing its school uniform, not saying please and thank you. The moon is refusing new food, not opening doors for other people. The moon is a scarlet orange. It is a savoury chocolate bar. The moon is not looking left and right when crossing the road. It is an untrimmed fingernail, swimming with no armbands, opening the post of a stranger. The moon is not shaving. It is not stretching before exercise. The moon is eating out of date houmous, not locking the door, forgetting to drink water. The moon is a poem struggling to get to the point.