This full March moon
brings out the madness in me.
The silent, fireless face,
illuminating the almost morning,
urges me to slough off all these
cotton encumbrances.

“Come,” she demands,
“into the glowing!
Race around your house,
howling!”

But there are the neighbors.

I hear them in my head.
Harriet jabbing George in his ribs,

“What’s that noise?!”

“Oh, that’s just Ken,
going crazy again.
I’ll speak to him”.

But he doesn’t.

My buddy only chuckles to himself
as he backs his
Dodge down his driveway.
He is kindred,
and has often left his footprints
in the morning dewed grass.

He waves.
Smiles at me,
as I sit on my front porch,
gazing across our road,
at the pond,
longing to,
but fighting away the wish
to walk on water.