Pockets

I'm sitting by a pair of swings

watching the stars stagnate in the summer sky

as the sun warms some other hemisphere.

You weren't concerned with beginnings,

worried only about how best to enjoy the present,

a New Age philosophy if I've ever heard one;

but all I have is a beginning.

The present is afflicted by a worrisome

dearth of a particular presence.

I'll converse with the moon,

my sentimental friend the moon,

whispering about reincarnation and the future

and what I think might be in it.

But I just feel pale and sickly

beneath Luna's steely gaze --

her eye is cold and white,

a washed-out albino imitation of your own

pair of green and gold.

I have more time in my pockets than you would think,

so I won't go hungry any time soon.

Perhaps these swings won't be empty indefinitely.

I miss the green, the gold.