This is the third night in a row
I have found the moon in my bed.
It is sitting up, propped against my pillow,
eating chocolate, and reading Karl Marx.
It is in revolt; and nods to tell me
to take the old job.
Somberly, I drift through the window
and arrange myself over the rooftops—
counting the cars on the highway below,
sighing at the proper times,
smelling the dark, run-over cats.
(Will I get the minimum wage?)