table for one? -- a poem

 

It must be about you, then, he said

to the moon.

There was no reply.

It is, isn't it?

His ears rang and his jaw clenched as pain and rage

took their respective seats at the table

for another night’s discussion.

Eat, then, said the pain.

My appetite has gone, replied the rage.

They looked to the soul, who

shrugged and turned, hands in pockets.

How could she?

How dare she?

Who is she?

And so, moon, I have decided that

it must be about you.

It has to be about you.