I found myself in the passenger seat of
your sedan
once again, freckled knees thudding
against each other
as my eyes followed the moon and
I wondered,

Does the moon follow us?
And maybe she does.

The moon walks on her fingertips,
threads of moonlight carefully sinking
through the delicate branches of the forests
that hug the highway.

She does flips over the guard rails,
balanced on the tightrope
that stretched over the double golden
grooves that swell along the streets.

She pulls rabbits from her craters,
and they leap from the pedestal boards
into her outstretched arms.

She juggles circus cows over her head
as lunar elephants line up to parade
alongside the chalky grooves
and the sousaphones and trombones
play foxtrots and “ta-daa's”
to the show-goers, the spectators.

She rides alongside me atop her unicycle,
coaxing me to pick a card, any card,
and when my fingers plucked the
ace of spades,
feathers erupted from the corners,
and a dove burst through my fingers
and sailed into the stars.

I found myself tucked away in my bed
once again, freckled knees enveloped
in fleece
as my eyes watched the moon and
I wondered,

Did the moon follow us?
And maybe she did.