TELLING A COMPLETE STRANGER TO LOOK AT THE MOON
On the train I hesitate to then touch
The tired man sitting beside me
To point out the big moon rising
Over Mt. Diablo and the forgotten
Graffitied factories of South San Francisco
And he who like me was nodding
Over his phone, drawing his finger
With its whorled prints unique to him
Down the smudged screen
To refresh the feed gone stale
And learn of horrors missed
While working, thanks me and calls
His wife to tell her to tell his sons
To go out on some balcony in Bernal
Heights and see the moon before
It atrophies and pales into bone.
On the train I hesitate to then touch
The tired man sitting beside me
To point out the big moon rising
Over Mt. Diablo and the forgotten
Graffitied factories of South San Francisco
And he who like me was nodding
Over his phone, drawing his finger
With its whorled prints unique to him
Down the smudged screen
To refresh the feed gone stale
And learn of horrors missed
While working, thanks me and calls
His wife to tell her to tell his sons
To go out on some balcony in Bernal
Heights and see the moon before
It atrophies and pales into bone.