The Problem with the Moon

The poems start to sound the same,
all of them, the whining
and the mystical ones alike.
So you sit back on your bed
and stare at the same moon
in the same window,
wondering why it doesn’t have
somewhere better to be.
It’s trapped in that boring career
across the sky and poems.
You insult the moon to its face,
its big, fat, snail’s pace face,
but it doesn’t care.
It’s famous, you see.
And famous usually means
full of sameness. And hey,
anyway, did you ever notice
how it shrivels up until it’s just thumbing
its sharp nose at everyone,
and especially the poets
trapped in its dharma?

The Light Bulb of Cumae

You say to write a poem
you need to feel inspired.
I have this light bulb
in the center of a ceiling,
the center of a room,
that is similarly unreliable.
I flip the switch at night,
but it only comes on
if it is inspired.
Yet I don’t replace
the broken light bulb,
out of a deep respect
for its past poetry
of half-assed
light.