Everybody writes about the moon, but then I
get drunk in Providence and stare out the car window.
It’s a silent car after a loud night and I watch the moon
and I can see the shadow where it curves away, where
the sun cannot see and I think for a moment
—for one drunken moment—that maybe I
am greater than the sun. Look at that moon,
I tell myself, you remember that moon. And I write a note
about writing a poem about the moon and it says
dear not trashed self and it says nothing
and it means nothing when I open it
—it’s still in Arial—and I laugh because
everybody writes about the moon, but then I
am in the car with my friend who got drunk at home
and he’s losing his job and he’s losing his mind but he
tells us how beautiful the moon is and
if I only have that sunset, he tells us, if I only have that,
I’ll be alright. And I write a note
about writing a poem about the moon.
Alex Everette is a New England area writer who collects bones and tends to entirely too many succulents. His work can be found at Abstract Magazine, Post Ghost Press, and The Raven Chronicles.