It Is Late Afternoon

It is late afternoon.

I have put Beethoven on.

It is foolish to impute pain

to the intense sky

but that is what I have done.

And I will impute loneliness

to the appearing moon.

It is early night.

Down in the lighted city

the tedious hunts begin.

I have been assured

there is no cause for shame.

I am not ashamed.

I turn the music louder.

There's the moon

in my room's window.

I balance it on my thumb

and try to flip it over.

It does not turn,

but still, my thumb

is not broken.

I open the window.

I make the music softer.

I walk on Murray Hill.

The moon needs no legend.

It proclaims its interest

in time, in the immediate night.

I decide to leave it alone.

In my room

the music is turning

because I expect a friend.