where the writers are
Hanging Moon

I caught sight of a morning moon,
hanging low in a clear
     sky blue sky.

I saw it over the bail bonds office
     and that real estate place that's never open.

I look up at the planes
taking the sky from you
     as you watch back at

The newspaper guy
catching up with his friends

Supplicants on their way
to the courts

And the buses
inching their way to the City.

You are not moving, moon.

But, when I come home,
you are the only thing in all this space
that will be gone.

Nothing moves, nothing changes here
'cept you.

And I will look for you
again in the morning.

Over the buildings,
across the street,
up the block.

Hanging shy.