a discontented you
walks out of the room
rendered cold by failure
to seek a faithful muse.
it surprises you, yet again,
the humility of winter night skies.
(how did we learn conceit?
you wonder)
the man on the moon looks on
holding the poem you just abandoned.
it seems complete
(though you cannot read it
from this distance)
he seems to approve.
(there is hope for you yet,
you think)
you reach out to him,
and just as you breathe in
the first waft of fulfilment
the treacherous rascal
flings it out into the empty space
nestled among stars.
you dive in unthinkingly
in a panic unsuited to the night
only to smell the familiar scent
of your putrid room.
some poems are meant to be
the universe’s joke on you.
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