[So, I got hit by the muse at lunch a couple of weeks, maybe a month, ago, and wrote this. Not sure what kind of mood I was in. Let me know what you think.]
Moon
Bright white in the dim evening,
a surreal, glowy, pockmarked orb.
Surprising,
shedding its tarnished glory or the arena crowd.
The lights were out,
someone pulled a plug.
A prank?
Play halts; the ref blows a whistle.
Emergency lamps flash.
The home team – in blue and gold – stand confused,
the ball forgotten.
The winning team – in red and black – snicker and jostle.
The crowd whispers;
it builds to a dull crescendo.
And the young man pulls up his red track pants
and runs like hell.
Tara Moeller 