Mother Moon wanes, hides
in the moments just before dawn.
Hanging on to the last
perched
at the horizon
bushes and fog obscure
her once stately features.
The night clings to her
sings to her
birds heralding her retreat
pigeons, pecking at
cigarette butts,
the destitute
grasping
for one last drag.
Father Sun
bookends the beginning
of the day, subsidized housing
in the vaults of heaven
shoring up the infirm
and impecunious.
Characters of stories
both husband and wife
shine upon
shadows, wistfully
waft from the throne
a corona of smoke.
And they do not speak during their morning constitution
but signaling
as she beats her rugs
that he has long stamped upon
and shorn his stately visage
carrying younger than her years
yet he shall always remain in her.