© 2017 Steve King
All rights reserved
He leaned so naturally,
bent to shadow by the moon.
He asked if I had a match.
‘I don’t smoke, myself,’ he said,
‘but I must look to my watch,
for the times are old.’
So soon, it gathers like a dream,
the waiting while his moon burns hot,
and all my world grows cold.
A poem for Joy Jones’ Friday 55