Four’ O clock, after mandatory piss , not groping back to my bed I pass through a good old poet’s shadow bumping into it on night’s balcony, where I go to check on clean moon.
The moon has just been siphoned off. The sky persists with its remnants, hardly anyone’s idea of a clean moon with the trees below in numb homage, some crumbs for a rag-picking poet.
There was nothing hilarious in this as a shadow’s sad steps were heard. A moon can be frittered away in sleep.Happens if we do not get up for piss.
(Reference is to the poem Sad Steps by Philip Larkin)