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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 75

Moon Man


There he is, my other self, stumbling along
Tone deft but insisting on playing life’s
                                        symphony by ear

He is like a country fully inhabited but
waiting to be discovered       or like a
planet which, ever so gently, wobbles a star
to reveal it’s presents

He has his history, his Alexandra, his Caligula moments. 
He has crossed the alps, the oceans, 
going from what he was to what he is
 
and like everyone else, has been nailed 
 called back from the dead                                               
 been a Buddha when it didn’t
                        matter. 

That’s him, eating peanut butter and banana sandwiches,
shyly leaning too far over the ramparts while the enemy
waits below 
                  He has the great comfort of loving
                  and being loved, and still he is
                  hungry for something else…

We are so different, the two of us, two sides of the moon.
It seems almost funny we cast the same tongue-tied  
shadow, the same stuttering footprint. 

But there you have it, there’s no stopping him
and maybe it’s for the best. He plays everything by ear
and doesn’t know one note from another.

Still, I  find myself tapping a finger to his beat.
He is, after all, my brighter side, 
the one facing the earth, the side that people see.

  Frank Murphy