It’s moonlight time
and I decide I’m insane–

with Seneca and someone else’s dog
for company, I consider life
beneath Davis jazz and note
I’m nothing like them.

O, Them.
The elusive
plural my mind’s convinced
pronouns the masses.

Have you met every single
one of Them? I ask.
My mind replies, witty as ever:
“Have you ever met
me?”

Touché, dear anima.
We can stay insane. For tonight
at least, moonlight is too
precious to waste.


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