Little Sickle and Me

Little Sickle is shining again!

The last time I saw it shine this bright

I was a lighthouse

In a high walled flat

My rooms they turned with a shadow

I crawled under blankets

Horded myself for a moment

I wouldn’t know it until it found me

So I waited there

Wrapped tight with a book of poems and a torchlight

Like a child reading about cowboys and the Great West

I made promises to go out there someday

Outside my window, the clouds ran buffalo around rooftops

John Wayne was pushing herds past the moon

Giving them life

Making them bold

He the ever technicolour relic in a peach scarf and midnight blue shirt

All six shooters and tin stars.

Me and John, we had an understanding

He kept them buffalo moving nice and slow

And I would throw him the occasional word or two when he came by

Usually he ended up with the unfinished poems in his saddle bags

I thought this to be a good deal most nights.

Sometimes the way I yawn

Reminds me of nothing but a bear

Shaking water and fish scales and the colour orange

My fur flowing as if holding hands with the movement

I shine bright

Little sickle isn’t the jealous type though

She lets me pretend to be like her

In these moments I am a streetlamp playing at constellation

While she spends her days making music of vacancy

At night she carves suburban streets empty

Except for fox dancing and bark moaning.

There are nights when little sickle and I dance a mean jig

Others where we talk slow

Still more where we walk in silence.

In the arms of the city

I daydream about the mountains we all came down from

The oceans we climbed up from

Little sickle kisses these thoughts like a child  healing playground bruises

We know these dreams will one day outlive us all

So we watch them grow

Shining all the while.


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