Lopsided Moon

By Johnlmalone

The bus shelter at the end of our street grinds its teeth at night.

Sometimes I sit with it, hold its hand, listen to its tale

of drunks and suicides,
of lycanthropes baying at the full moon,
of lost Lotharios weeping in their fists

I talk to it too about my problems
Of the jig-saw days when pieces don’t fit
Of the times when your heart races
Like a wildebeest on the veldt
But latches onto nothing.

After a while we both settle

and I head off home
beneath a lopsided moon.