The Moon with Sunglasses
Moon, you need an agent. Artists have stolen from you all these years. Royalties are due. As I write by your light in the middle of the night, I know a debt is owed. Yet, you sit in the sky like a big, round child with cake on his face. A pock-marked rube, seemingly unaware, mugging in a celestial mirror your three-quarter face, half-face, quarter-face, your emo-sliver-of-face. Yeah, you're the James Dean of the night, already!
Maybe your recompense is looking in windows and seeing our naked wives. Maybe your generosity veils the sinister glee you derive from conducting our seas; your silent sway over water chestnut humanity. It may well have been your joke to prod the first people into worshiping the sun.
Moon, I will be your agent. I will fit you with celebrity shades and teach you to mumble when you speak; measure you for a billboard head-band, a branded tattoo. But first things first, we need to get you pierced! There is money to be made.
Part of me will miss your former simple face, smiling freely - a friend to poets, drifters, cab drivers and night watchmen - but as I appraise my new client, I know such feelings will disappear like baby fat from my bones and the dew from my eyes, burned off on re-entry.