On a Monday I met her, but should’ve known better-
moon days bode ill for new friends.
Lunar sea tides with light and dark sides
make Monday trysts wane to weak ends.
Aphelion eyes, dark hair and toned thighs
presaged a blue moon ascending.
With a wink and a gun, she blocked out the sun
in total eclipse, never-ending.
Said, taking my hand: you’ve the look of a man
who’d rather not sleep ’til he’s dead.
I refuse to work harder or pay for my Prada,
let’s dance with the Devil instead.
We ran for a time on a dream and a dime,
both stolen and hard to sustain.
At the trail’s grim end, a posse of men
machine-gunned love’s final refrain.
Ryan Stone
First published at Poetry Nook, May 2017.
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