The Orbit

It's the moon's problem,
her jealousy of stars, her flat

and immobile self stuck
to pull the oceans to and fro.

So much more out there and yet
she has to circle, she has to be

white on one side and dark
on the other. It's the way it is.

All those twinkling fires,
like grown children,

seemingly at arm's reach,
but light years away.

Around and around,
like a worn marriage,

unable to pack a box,
or buy a train ticket,

or dye her hair red, or blonde
and leave with bag in hand,

to fly off like a comet
streaking anywhere, but here.