Mr. Moon


When we had brussel-sprout fists,
And were growing so fast you could smell it,
Driving home from distant adventures
You changed your voice and told us you were Mr. Moon.
And all the time we knew it was you, tucked in behind the wheel,
But when we squirmed against our belts to see your lips move,
Mom would tell us to sit still.
So we giggled and talked to your face full of cream
That hung in the oil-dipped sky.

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