Not all full-mooned nights are created equal.
some, a glimpse of light
like the globe of a streetlamp
so distant his index finger could block it.
a decisive poke
at the heavens as he stood.
a silly pause
in his late-night pace.
but that evening, another hand took his moon.
below, his cradled the rough clay
of a mug made for someone else’s palms.
it was taken fully
if just for a moment. a brief ellipse.
a midnight sip.
and, sure as he was of the inevitability,
his breath held for its return.