harvest moon

Harvest Moon.

The street lamp is off tonight, but it doesn’t matter,
the moon is nearly full and shines enough for me to
see across the street where she lives above her café;
tall and slender she sweeps her part of the pavement
twice a day, and is resolutely right winged, believes
in publics flogging and hanging, have contempt for
her costumers who are workers at the lower end of
the social scale, shop girls and office cleaners.

I used to be in love with her until a day when a rare,
silent moment occurred, in our busy street, so sudden
it made people look up and wonder, I heard her voice;
unpleasant and hectoring shouting at the simple girl
who does the dishes, called her stupid for breaking
a teacup. I think love the simple girl she’s soft spoken
and has no pretension, smiles when she sees me, been
thinking of offering her a job in my bar,

Mother does the washing up at my place, only she has
arthritis in her hands breaks a lot of glasses and plates,
has backache too standing for hours bent over the sink;
and anyway, as mother say: “It’s time you get married,
I can’t go on forever, and you are not young anymore.”
So that’s what I will do, when the moon is really full,
ask the simple girl to marry me, and I’ll send mother to
a home for the infirm.