It's not the end of the world,
But the end of the moon.
People move around as they always did,
Money changes hands,
Trains are caught,
Cars bought and shoes walked in,
But nobody dreams now
Of the silvered frightening not quite sphere
That used to follow us around at night,
Always as far away, always in the same direction.
Only I still dream
Of reaching up to try and touch the grey circle,
Of Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin,
Michael Collins forgotten in the command module,
Of walking myself on that bright dark rock,
Watching dust settle in a perfect ring around my footprint,
Bounding eight, ten feet into the air,
Glorious beneath the unclothed sun,
Laughing like a small happy child
Behind a visor like a giant's sunglass lens.
It's not the end of the world.
The world lives moonless
And I am just a lunatic.